Phoenix Falling: A Steampunk Fire Emblem
by Latyon
Summary: The prince of a lesser nation and a green-haired beauty intent on avenging her slaughtered people must team up to fight a brutal oligarchy threatening world domination. But when a wrathful god begins judging the world, whose side can be called the hero?
1. A Living Nightmare

Disclaimer: I do not own Fire Emblem, nor will I lie to you to make myself seem more important by implying that I am a major stockholder of a large corporation. Nor are those two related.

Author Note: Some of you guys might recognize me from a few other fics I've done. I have dipped my spoon in the bowls of Star Fox, Pokémon, Harvest Moon, and The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion when it comes to writing, not to mention the online browser RPG Urban Dead and running my own RPG forum. Well, this is my latest attempt at a story. I am going to sort of try to adhere to the Fire Emblem 100 Challenge in writing this, although this chapter doesn't count. It's more of a prologue than anything, but I hate making prologue chapters on here because it throws off my numbering.

Some of you may be wondering exactly what this story will entail. Well, here, I shall divulge a bit of information about it. It does not take place in any established Fire Emblem realm. No Jugdral, no Elibe, no Tellius. No, sir/ma'am, this story takes place on an entirely new world, a mostly ocean planet orbiting a dazzling gas giant called Rapture. Despite this, FE characters will have their day. Lyn is actually the lead female character, so that alone is enough motivation to read this, am I right? :D

The year is 4444 AMW, though the citizens of the planet Roc have long since forgotten what exactly "AMW" means in regards to their history. Two large nations dominate the landscape. The industrious nation of Skene is home to an oligarchal society of prospering men and women, but with an unfortunate class divide. Their scientific progress knows no bounds, and their most recent endeavor has proven fruitful; within the past few decades, Skenian architects and scientists have developed the first means of feasible, practical human flight: the airship. Airships have bolstered their military strength and allowed travel to places that would have been impossible to reach before (floating islands and the lot). And yet, even though they've done a great service to the world, there are those who look at Skene with a wary, almost disdainful eye...

The climatically chaotic nation of Nevehan rivals Skene in both size and population, though their people are much more attracted to the coast, for Nevehan's center is a desert wasteland. Storms batter cities frequently, but the Nevehanese are resilient, hardy individuals who won't let a storm scare them off. Nevehan is the nation where the world's largest religion was founded, and thus its people are seen as pious, righteous individuals with a heavy respect for their resident "big man upstairs." They are also physically unique, in that their black skin shines with a bizarre, glasslike sheen, and their hair and eyes match the color of blood. In earlier days, they were persecuted for their differences, but it didn't take them long to assert themselves and gain respect.

Other nations exist: the luck-driven floating nation of Brakkenhaal, the jungles of Jogoso, and the resource-rich Skenian territory of Kralin, to name a few. The world has yet to be explored completely, so who knows what exactly lies out there, beyond the storm drifts and the ley lines?

This story's Lord will travel to wondrous and terrifying places, and team up with the most unlikely faces (including pirates, crazed cult leaders, false gods, and, you guessed it, favorites from the Fire Emblem series) in order to avert the judgment of a wrathful god and save the world from destruction. But, of course, it's not that simple...

That being said, I hope you enjoy!

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Chapter 1 – A Living Nightmare

_To die: to sleep;  
No more; and by a sleep to say we end  
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks  
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation  
Devoutly to be wish'd. ~William Shakespeare_

Darkness. Darkness all around. It consumed him; it filled his nostrils with the putrid scent of shadows, and his eyes with the blight of blindness, and his ears with the constant, unbearable ringing of silence. The mattress below his pale, aged body had fallen away, the ever-present cushioning vanishing as consciousness faded, in favor of something less comfortable, something intangibly painful and infinitely less appealing than the goosedown that beckoned him something fierce in the hours before, those long hours filled with anxiety, dread, and the unwelcome feeling that someone, somewhere, could see you, could see everything that you were doing and watched with bated breath for the chance to…to…

What? What would they do? What could they do?

He felt himself falling, but suddenly jerked up in his bed, sixty years of aches and pains erupting in his lower back and joints. His eyes shot open, revealing bloodshot orbs of red, his crimson irises matching the color of his hair, the color of his life's water, and he heard that unmistakable cackling, that bloodcurdling, maniacal, terrifying cacophony right next to him, red lips peeled back just inches from his ears, the demonic noise filling his erratic thoughts. He leapt from his spot to one side, then the other, turning his head swiftly, trying to pinpoint the spot where the voice might have been coming from, while his heart raced. Satisfied that he was alone and, once again, hallucinating, he laid back down upon his pillow, but he did not dare shut his eyes. For he knew as soon as he did, they would come back. The nightmares. They promised him that they would. And, unfortunately, as he had discovered, his nightmares always held to their promises, twisted, macabre as they were.

The night sky was blank. He rolled onto his side to divert his eyes toward the curtained window, noting a slight breeze that rippled the scarlet fabric draped across the arched opening, a few feet wide and as tall as the ailing emperor. The clouds were low that night and he could see the occasional flash of heat lightning through his narrowing eye slits that disappeared for the sight of a thin red membrane, so relaxing, so glorious, sleep-

_No!_

He tore at his eyelids mentally, forcing them open once more. The curtains kicked up as the wind outside increased. A light howling noise began to creep up in the stale castle, from the air blasting against the iron walls. Finally, some noise. It would help him stay awake. Almost immediately after that thought crossed his mind, the wind ceased, and the curtain fell, obscuring his view of the skies outside. Fantastic. Silence. Just what he needed. The king stood up from his bed and began to pace.

How long had it been now, that he had avoided sleep? It could only have been a few hours, 48 tops. A paltry sum, he'd decided. He'd stayed awake for much longer, for much worse reasons than a silly nightmare. But why did this nightmare have to be so goddamn persistent? Every time he shut his eyes, he would see that face. Those ruby-colored eyes…that bloodied hair…the gleaming fangs, the strained laughter, the veins bulging in the inhuman thing's forehead, the constant beckoning for the old monarch, the mysterious shape behind her, broad-shouldered and devilish, warning the emperor not to come back to the world of his own dreams, or suffer a fate worse than death…

He collapsed to his knees and clasped his hands in front of his chest.

"St. Bennett…give me the strength to ward off the nightmares. Give me peace of mind so that I may rest this night…"

As the short prayer came to a close, he fell forward onto the ground, his body unable to manage the strains of life without rest. He was going to sleep, whether he wanted to or not. And he most certainly did not.

He awoke in a world without form. Below him, he felt the ground, but there was nothing to be seen, not even his own feet. His hands were invisible in front of him. All of his senses had been blocked. But he knew exactly where he was. The feeling of those broken blades of grass crumbling between his clenched fists, the dead roots tickling his fingers as he pushed himself up onto his feet served as a timeless reminder of this place. He didn't know what this place was; only that he had been here before. Every night for weeks, it seemed. A putrid wind blew against his face, curling his lips and forcing his eyes into a squint that, under other, less supernatural circumstances, would've seemed almost comical. But in the wind, he felt something…wrong. Something off. He could feel someone else was standing nearby, perhaps very nearby, perhaps…

He clenched his fist and spun on his left heel, throwing his whole weight behind a vicious punch, and felt it connect with something soft and silky, but with a certain firmness, a certain delicate character, and his knuckles cracked as the force of the punch collapsed his fingers into his palm. Whatever it had been, it stepped back and yelped, its voice feminine and deep.

The being, humanoid in form, clutched its damaged face with both hands, squeezing out burning, salty tears from its vicious red eyes. It could see perfectly, or rather, she – the creature was unquestionably female – and even with the advantage of sight, she'd not seen the punch coming. The old emperor collapsed onto his knees and began probing the dead grass with his hands, crawling in the direction opposite the creature. She took a step back, her face swelling, and flashed her fangs, though the man could not see them. Two pronounced canines gleamed with the dead red of dried blood, and it was now that her muscular wings folded out from her back. She looked something like a gargoyle at this point, her obsidian skin toughening with every passing instant, her eyes glowing, her teeth gnashing.

The ground began to quake around the old man, knocking his frail arms out from under him and flattening him against the ground. As the topsoil shifted and the rocks cracked, rifts began to form, and red magma began flowing from within the earth. The magma convulsed and bubbled, and leapt menacingly at the emperor, who could feel the heat surrounding him, until he was forced to crawl back, with only one venue of escape, the land bridge that he knew led back to the devil woman.

The magma began to blacken and boil, turning into a glassy black liquid, like a molten plastic, filling with air, taking shape, the shape of a human, the shape of the gargoyle-like woman. The glassy bubbles exploded, launching more of these creatures into the air. Ten, twenty, one-hundred of the creatures now fluttered above the emperor, who had crawled to the woman's feet. She placed a heel atop his head and directed his blind gaze to the skies.

"St. Bennett!" he called into heaven, though his prayers were lost in the sea of wings above him. The call incited the creatures to action; they sharply cried into the reddening twilight, before beginning a swirling action, until each and every creature was indiscernible from the others.

The man lay down in defeat as he felt the evil woman bury her teeth in his neck. He didn't try to fight her off. He was too tired for that. It was his time. He was to die this night.

If only it were that easy…

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The Arcwhale

Kaitan, Ceptiem 6, 4444

"Emperor Blanc Gravely Ill!"

by Viktor Mandic

In a message that shook the entire nation of Nevehan early this morning, princess and acting Empress Adriana Blanc announced that our beloved emperor, His Majesty Odyffer Blanc, has fallen into a horrific illness. The royal family has reportedly called upon physician after physician in order to diagnose the bizarre, terrifying disease, but as of yet, no conclusion has been reached.

His Majesty was discovered this morning at 4:44am by his daughter, who sought his advice for "personal reasons." She found him lying on the floor, and checking his pulse, determined that he was still alive. The guard was alerted and the castle sector of the city was sealed, with armed soldiers placed at every entrance and exit. The castle was searched, but nothing suspicious was discovered. Initial explanations described a possible poisoning, but all of His Majesty's meals taken in the past week had been in the presence of company, and none of his company has shown signs of illness.

Dr. Sasha Forge, a physician who was interviewed upon exiting the emperor's chambers, reported that there was "nothing wrong with His Majesty, save for his unconsciousness." His breathing and heart were working normally, and he responded normally to physical stimulus. Forge described his "utter disbelief" that something so bizarre had manifested in the good king.

Princess Blanc is reportedly already engaging in talks with leaders of neighboring nations, although the subject of their talks has not been disclosed.

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Author's Notes: End of introduction. I like reviews, so if you want to make me happy, leave me one. And actually, I noticed that some other original Fire Emblem fics have readers submit characters via PM that they would like to see in the story, and that seems kinda neat. If you want to toss me a character or two, feel free, I may use them, I may not. The point is, you have an opportunity to influence the story. But don't just leave me a character, the review is what's most important and lets me know where I'm strong and where I need improvement.


	2. The Rebel Prince

Disclaimer: I do not own Fire Emblem. However, this story is mostly mine, since, well, it doesn't exactly fit within any established Fire Emblem canon. But anything in this that is also from Fire Emblem, well, Nintendo gets the credit.

Author's Note: Oh, college is a glorious thing. After a hellish week of tests, me and a bunch of friends celebrated our victory. Well, let's just say I celebrated a bit too hard, and my celebration proceeded to erupt from my stomach and sprayed itself all over the steps leading to the apartment we were at. The moral of the story is pace yourself. This chapter fulfills the "Lord" segment of the 100 Themes Challenge.

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Chapter 2 – The Rebel Prince

The night sky contained no clouds and offered an unobstructed view of the deep orange gas giant floating above, giving the captain false expectations about the temperature outside; he hoped that the vermillion gases above would somehow exude the same open-armed warmth that the sun offered the cold-stricken sailors during the temperate spring daylight, but his hopes were sorely crushed when he stepped through the heavy steel door to the upper deck of the surveillance cruiser. Most of the troops were in the process of retiring for the night, and the bells had just chimed for the nighttime relief to make their way to their posts. The captain made a point of ensuring that all positions were relieved on his ship, though no sailor onboard had a history of shirking duty. Throwing a scarf around his neck, he stepped up to the railing overlooking the skies below. The clear night gave a pleasant view of the city to the south, the city they were in charge of watching for the time being. To his back was the horizon, a flat plane of still ocean, with just one blight against the serene seascape. Almost centered against the blue sky was the southern tip of the nation of Nevehan. With a glance across the strait, he gave a sinister little chuckle, almost inaudible against the wind blowing past the airship. He'd heard that Nevehan's ruler was deathly ill. And with a woman as his heir, the attractive but conniving Princess Adriana, Nevehan's future was looking grim. Although, he supposed he could not exactly allow his misogyny to reign over his opinion of women in authority. After all, his admiral was a woman.

He kept his eyes on the southern city, a fairly small castle town situated in a scenic valley at the edge of the water. The rocky cliffs formed a sort of lagoon around the town, shielding them from most naval attacks and allowing for the construction of defense towers along the stone atoll, although these defense towers had since been seized by Skene. At this range, it was possible that the cannons in the towers could have shot down the cruiser, but this nation, Kralin, was much less technologically advanced, and the odds of their cannonballs having the gusto to bust through the reinforced hulls of a Skenian airship were fairly slim. In fact, their defense towers were near useless for anything but pirate repellant. Hell, most pirates had not even gotten to the point of building their ships out of metal. Yet another example of Skenian superiority.

This job was beginning to grow boring. For weeks on end, he'd spent his night on this very deck, layered up with heavy fabrics, keeping an eye on a city that was obviously not going to give them any trouble. Nevehan was on good terms with Kralin, so it was clear that even after the Skenian occupation, the world's second largest nation would not think of jeopardizing their standing with the Kralic people by attacking. The city itself, Avenghelst, had no military power. All navy ships had been seized by Skene to bolster their own military, and were receiving the proper upgrades necessary to turn them into grade-A battle vessels. All guns had been confiscated, in order to prevent a rebellious uprising. Swords, though, were still allowed, although unsheathing a blade in the presence of a Skenian soldier had become a capital offense, and the Skenian norm of trial by jury for criminals did not apply in cases involving this particular infraction. Execution on the spot was common when soldiers were threatened, but threats were few and far between and usually made only by those who leaned toward political extremism or mental disability. People who wouldn't be missed, in the captain's mind.

Tonight, though, held the promise of breaking the monotony he'd been subjected to. For weeks, there'd been no cause for alarm in Avenghelst. Life went on as normal. The royal family, the Dourmn's, kept the people in check with false promises that the military occupation would end as soon as Skene was positive that their new territory was under no danger of takeover or uprising. The merchants continued their sales, although a percentage went into Skene's coffers, and the children went about playing, virtually oblivious to the majority of things happening around them. Nothing the soldiers could see was indicative of the attack they were expecting that night. A rumor had been circulating that an underground force was planning the takeover of the defense towers at the stroke of midnight that night. And while the captain knew that even with the towers, the town was still all but defenseless, he welcomed the opportunity to demonstrate the magnitude of destruction offered by his ship's cannons. All lights on the ship had been shut off to maintain a stealthy cloak, and they'd floated silently for hours above and around the lagoon, keeping their eyes on both of the cliffsides leading to the towers. If the rumors were correct, something the captain was sincerely hoping for, then they would be able to see the large procession of Kralic militia marching up the granite slopes. And when they did, they would fire. Debris would rain down into the bay, preventing damage to the town's architecture, and the sounds of battle would likely draw a crowd outside to witness the damage. News would spread like wildfire, and morale would fall like…like…

_Like Risse's arm._

That was an event worth witnessing. Months before, he'd been awoken by his crew to witness a very foreboding and very beautiful occurrence, the likes of which had never been seen before. As was usual, at approximately one o'clock in the morning, the crew gathered to watch their god fly across the sky, a gorgeous eight-armed creature illuminated by starlight and the orange gases of Rapture. It never stopped, and never spoke a word, simply flying by as a daily reminder to the inhabitants of the planet that Risse was watching over them. It was a time that many would bow in prayer to the benevolent animal, even the less-than-virtuous. Risse had given them life, and deserved their gratitude immensely. It was almost socially taboo not to pray when Risse was in the sky.

This night, the faithful bird broke her pattern, for the very first time. People watched with adoring vigor as the bird began to glow with her own light source, her bioluminescence overshadowing every other source of brightness in the night sky. Swoons filled the air of towns all over the map, as women fainted at the glory of their god, and men looked on excitedly as the bird showered its loving light on the skies. This period of worship was cut short rather terribly as a bright orange flash replaced Risse in the sky, and sighs turned to screams as everyone watched a ball of fire erupt from Risse's body and begin a rapid descent to the planet. It fell for what seemed like an eternity, and the impact was felt everywhere, first as a dull rumble in the ground, a horrible tremor, and then by a huge wave hitting coastal towns, washing small villages away and damaging large ones greatly.

The captain remembered it all too well, being a religious man. He did not know what to think of Risse's display. Holy leaders, namely Pope Aeth Vathiel II, had yet to decide whether or not the act was meant in malevolence or otherwise. The nature of their idol was never quite recorded in their holy book. And there were certainly no texts that described Risse raining fire upon his worshipers. Whatever it was, the months afterward had not been littered with pestilence or war, so the tension faded from the air as people went back to their daily lives. And yet, the captain couldn't help but think there was something more to it than a simple fireball.

"Captain Lehmann! The militia has been mobilized! Finally, some fuckin' action!" shouted the lookout, Banes, from the crow's nest, much to the captain's dismay.

"Your tactlessness knows no bounds," the captain uttered to himself before calling out a command to the rest of the troops. The internal alarms were to be sounded and all cannons were to be prepared. The helmsman was ready before anyone else and began his slow descent to the established anchor point. The captain removed a small telescope from his coat pocket and began scanning the dark cliffs for signs of movement. The militia was fairly awful at concealing themselves in the night. Some of them even carried torches. Of course, they weren't expecting the cruiser to be waiting, so how could they have known that the torches would be a bad idea? Then again, in any midnight assault, weren't torches a bad idea?

He shook his head. He was thinking too hard about it. It was something he often found himself guilty of, and so he discarded his suspicions and held on as the ship angled to face the east. By now, his telescope could pick up the individual faces of the militia. They were overwhelmingly Kralic in appearance, with soft facial features and pale skin, hair the color of chocolate and eyes like the sky. They really were a beautiful race, beautiful enough for one of Lehmann's dreams to be to marry a Kralic dame. It was a pity that he was about to crush many of them under a volley of cannon fire.

"Captain, we are ready to fire when you give the word," came a voice from a nearby pipe. Lehmann turned to the pipe and commanded the nearest sailor to give the order to the master gunner, and knew that his order had been received when he heard the resounding boom of gunpowder exploding below him. Still watching through his telescope, he saw the militia's horrified expressions as the cannonballs smashed into the rocks below them, knocking their pathway out from under and dropping around a dozen of the midnight warriors into the craggy waters below. Others took the steel balls directly into their chests or heads. Lehmann could not even see the fates of those men and women, though he imagined they were quite bloody and rather painful. They didn't even scream, at least, not that Lehmann could hear. Perhaps the cannons were too loud, or perhaps they'd been shocked beyond words by the counterattack.

"One more volley should do them in, boys! FIRE!" he called out, watching the remaining militia intently. They'd stopped advancing on the towers and stood, staring, at the Skenian airship. Their eyes, clearly visible to Lehmann, were soulless, dead. They had no expressions on their faces, making them all look eerily similar. Lehmann realized seconds later that it wasn't just their expressions making them look similar.

They all had the same face.

Lehmann didn't even have to watch the Krals vanish into an indistinguishable cloud of black smoke before realizing what he was seeing. The men and women advancing up the cliff were not real. Those dead eyes, those blank faces, they could only be the work of one kind of person.

_An evoker._

He hadn't been aware that Kralin had any knowledge of magic. In fact, the only person he knew of in the entire nation with any knowhow in the arts of evocation and summoning worked directly for the king, and the odds of him being involved in a rebellion were low. Infinitesimally low. He would not dare defy Skenian orders. Would he?

"C-Captain! Sound the alarms, we're being boarded!" screamed Banes from the crow's nest, much to Lehmann's confusing. They weren't being boarded, there was no possible way they –

The rumor was a trap. The revelation came as suddenly as concrete after a leap off of a tall building, and it hit just as hard. He turned around and saw a brigade of small craft rising up alongside the ship from below, somewhere where no one would've been looking. Very clever, the captain thought, but also very bad for the crew.

"All hands on deck! We're being boarded!" Lehmann screamed. By now the ship was ablaze with a flood of red lights, and a harsh whine erupted from the speakers wired into the ship's walls. Getting a better look at the small craft, he realized that they were lifeboats from some other ship, definitely Skenian by their construction. Where they'd come from, he wasn't sure, but there were a lot of them, and each one had at least five armed Krals aboard. As the lifeboats passed overhead, the men dropped onto the cruiser's deck and engaged the sailors aboard. Many of them wielded guns and forced sailors to surrender immediately upon boarding. Most of the crew on deck was corralled toward the ship's bow within mere seconds, surrounded by angry masked men wielding what looked to be illegally modified guns. The captain stood strong, drawing his pistol and waiting for any of the lifeboat pirates to address him. Glancing about at their numbers, his eyes fell on one that seemed somehow different from the rest. He stood still, a sword at his hip, something none of the others had. Of course, he was also carrying a repeater, but the sword was what made him stand out. He turned, his clothed face lit red by the alarm signals, his devilish blue eyes meeting with Lehmann's greens. And he began a slow, dedicated walk, not taking his eyes off of the captain, not even to bat an eye.

There they stood, no more than ten feet from one another, when the captain finally raised his pistol to fire. He leveled the barrel with the man's head before feeling the gun wrench from his hand, jamming his finger against the trigger guard before it flew over the railing. Bewildered, the captain looked his attacker dead in the eyes.

"Psionics, eh? Not bad, kid. Not bad at all. Well, you've got me by the balls on this one, don't you?"

"Such vulgar language. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" the pirate leader replied, to the surprise of the captain, who didn't expect such a proper, youthful voice from the man. Up close, the captain could see certain aspects of the boy's appearance quite clearly. Although his head was covered, a dark shock of chocolate locks could be seen restricted underneath the fabric wrap, matching the color of the boy's shapely eyebrows perfectly. His eyes practically glowed blue, although in the red light it wasn't so easy to tell. Much of his face was obstructed, except for his mouth, which revealed slightly chapped lips, and from what the captain could tell, a clean-shaven face, which was a rarity in this town.

"I don't kiss my mother at all these days."

"I apologize for that. And all this, as well," the pirate said, gesturing to the caged soldiers at the bow of the ship, "if it is any consolation, I plan on letting them all live, provided you relinquish your ship and leave this city."

"Piss off, kid. We have no intentions of surrendering to you."

"I was…afraid of that, I will admit. Bloodshed is something that I rather detest, but if you resist then you will leave me no choice. Give up the ship, and you can all go home unhappy, but alive. Or we can line you up at the edge of the deck and shoot you overboard. It makes no difference to me."

"Will you kill me yourself?"

"I would rather not, but if that is your dying wish, then I would have no choice but to obey."

"A pirate with morals. That's good, that's really good. Well, as I've said, we aren't giving you the ship."

"Fair enough. Kill them all, men!" the pirate called to his troops, who all raised their rifles and handguns to eye level. The sailors protested greatly, as should be expected from men who are about to die, before Lehmann finally relented.

"Stop, stop! Don't kill them, they've done nothing! Let each man make his own choice whether or not to stay. Then, we'll do this right. Your side versus my side, whichever side outlasts the other gets the ship. Fair and square. Play with honor."

"Your offer is tempting," said the pirate, his voice tinged with sarcasm, "but as you said, I 'have you by the balls.' There is little you can do at this point to save yourself. Now, live or die. Make your decision."

Lehmann stood, staring contemplatively at the ground and angrily at the pirate. Both choices ended badly for him. If he said no, he was without a weapon to defend himself against an armed psion. If he said yes, he would have to return to Skene with the news that his ship had been stolen by pirates in lifeboats, which would surely cost him rank, not to mention his credibility and prestige. He'd have to live with being ridiculed by every passing soldier and sailor that he saw. Which fate was worse?

From the doorway to his right, he heard the rampant clatter of boots on metal stairs. Reinforcements. Stalling had been the right choice.

"Your move, cur," the captain said as the doorway burst open, and floods of armed sailors came pouring through. Before the pirate could react, he heard the crack of some fifteen to twenty firearms and an equal amount of bodies dropping to the deck. He then turned, diving over the railing to the lower area where his troops had just executed the sailors they'd captured. He landed with a roll and turned around, aiming his pistol at the new enemies. The captain retreated to the back of the crowd while pirates and sailors exchanged fire. The pirates were sorely outnumbered, but somehow, the navy found that they were the ones suffering losses. Lehmann knew why. The psion pirate captain. Whatever he was doing, it was protecting his troops. He was sure that the psion's limits were being stretched, though. It was such a wide deck, and so many people to protect. The shield would drop soon, and when it did, the pirates were history.

The pirate captain dropped to one knee, clutching his head tightly between both palms. One of the others rushed forward, firing his pistol one-handed into the enemy, kneeling next to the rogue leader, with apparent concern. The mental stress was too great. He'd probably been hit with a nasty migraine, if Lehmann's experience with psionics was to be trusted. The pain would be crippling if he continued holding the shield up. Lehmann smiled when he heard the boy's cries of pain.

The cries of pain climaxed seconds later, and Lehmann's smile was shattered, most literally. He felt a wall of air fly toward him, knocking him backward along with every other sailor, and a single bullet splintered his yellow grin and buried itself in his throat. He no longer heard gunfire; instead, he heard gurgling noises all around him, blood churning and bubbling in peoples' mouths. He realized he had underestimated the psionic. Every bullet the captain's men fired was another one of his own soldiers killed, for the pirate had caught them with his mind and, when his skills breathed their last breath, sent them flying back toward their origins at almost twice their original speed. Some ricocheted off of the metal wall and into the night. Others pierced the walls and buried themselves somewhere inside the ship. Many were lodged in the bones of the sailors. Blood began to leak onto the deck.

"You all right, milord?" one of the pirates asked his leader, who was now on his hands and knees, leaning dangerously forward. He came to rest with his forehead against the cold metal, the steel somehow soothing his pounding headache. It would be a few minutes before it went away, and the pirates circled around their leader, allowing him time to recover, not to mention allotting time for any sailors still alive on the upper deck to bleed out.

The first thing out of the rogue leader's mouth was an order to search the ship for any other lurking sailors and snuff them out, and to shut off the alarm. This eventuality was one he did not desire, though it certainly solved another problem that the group had when planning the whole assault: the problem of keeping the survivors quiet. Even though he'd had to kill them all, the rogue found solace in the fact that none of his own men were hurt. The takeover went fairly well, all things considered.

"Milord, the ship is clear. Shall we set our course for the cove?" asked another pirate, emerging from the ship's interior to the outer deck. The leader was now able to stand; it'd been a full half hour since the end of the attack, and the quietness of the night air did wonders in helping him recover from the migraine, now a minor, pulsating headache behind his eyes. He nodded to the pirate and motioned for everyone to precede his entry into the ship, wanting to enjoy the night air for just a few more moments before they began their departure. As the last sailor entered, the rogue leader felt a hand grab him around the ankle. Disturbed, he yanked his blade from its sheath and batted the arm away, slicing deeply into the wrist of the man who'd laid hands on him. Looking down, he saw that it was Lehmann. Somehow, he was still alive.

"Captain," the rogue sighed, kneeling down next to the man. He could see the life fading from the officer's eyes, but he could see that the captain wanted something. "What is it, sir?"

"Your face…" the dying man coughed, "…let me see the face…of the one…who…k-killed…"

"As you wish, captain," the youth replied, unwrapping the fabric from his face and discarding it next to the captain. Those fading green eyes widened with fury, the kind of fury that a cornered animal unleashes upon its assailants, only this time, the cornered animal was too damaged to allow the fury to manifest violently. The youth's face was not only familiar to Lehmann, but one he hated. It was a face like many others in Kralin, soft and pale, with bright eyes and dark contrasting hair. But this face stood out, with that straight smile and look of general mischief.

"You…" the captain grumbled, before gasping his last breath. The rogue felt almost guilty for the man, but the parameters had been set. He'd been given a chance to live, and he didn't take it. He tried to kill the rogue's friends, and that was an unforgivable act. He had to die; there were no other options. With this in mind, the rogue entered the ship, allowing the last dregs of his psionic-induced headache to subside while the rest of his crew piloted the ship to a cove east of the city, where it would join the ranks of dozens of other stolen ships. This one, though, was special. It was their first and only battle-ready airship. With that in mind, they allowed the ship to settle into the water and sailed it through the gaping entrance to their underground base of operations.

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"This is an outrage!" the boy heard from within his father's office. He knew that voice all too well, and every time he heard it, he couldn't help but writhe with anger. The voice belonged to a man named Javan Stas, a one-armed politician with a generally disagreeable disposition and a horrid case of bad breath. Overall, Javan was not so bad, but it was his conduct in the presence of Kralin's king that peeved the boy so much. These Skenians had no respect for anyone outside of their own pathetic, power-hungry oligarchy. Their occupation of Kralin had shaken things up quite a bit, though it was not without its perks, the boy supposed. For one, he rather enjoyed waking up that morning to hear that, the previous night, a band of pirates had successfully wrangled Captain Lehmann and his crew for their ship and hauled it off to who-knows-where. That kind of news kept the boy going.

"That may be so, Ambassador Stas, but the truth of the matter is that we have zero evidence that this hijacking had anything to do with our town. All we know is that one of your ships is gone, and that no one in the city has the means to steal an airship. We are weaponless, and even if we did have our navy, none of our ships could fly," replied the boy's father, the king of Kralin. The boy, the nation's only prince, cracked a smile as he leaned against the framing of the office door, a massive wooden double with one side ajar. His father's tone was completely uncaring and apathetic toward the Skenian ambassador's plight, which was just the kind of attitude the prince enjoyed seeing in his people.

"You can be sure that security around here is going to be increased. I'll have soldiers on every street corner, day and night, and we'll have more airships watching the coasts. Two ships should do nicely."

"I cannot stop you. Do what you will, but do not come crying to me when you lose your next two ships due to your military's bumbling incompetence."

"I would advise against disrespecting my nation, milord. After all, we are the ones in control right now."

"Right now," the king echoed. Flustered, the ambassador rose from his chair, nodding at the king as a replacement for a bow and stormed out through the door, making a semi-comical face at the prince, who merely smirked and pushed open the door to his father's office.

The room was massive, though not quite as grand as either the prince's or the king's quarters, but just as ornate and decorated. Its high ceilings were painted with huge, colorful murals depicting the nation's history, as well as various myths and legends that originated in and around the Kralic territory. Columns lined the walls at regular intervals and were sculpted with the busts of the kings who had lived in that castle, with a few of the columns left blank for future kings. The back wall was a giant stained glass window, depicting the Kralic seal. And directly in front of the window was a large, heavy wooden desk, with an equally heavy chair. In this chair sat King Leuther Dourmn.

"It is late, son. You should be asleep."

"Couldn't," the boy replied. He was still in the clothing he wore to dinner that night, making it obvious that he'd never even attempted to go to sleep. The prince was positively glowing, it seemed. His face reflected some sort of deep, intense happiness, but with him, there was always some sort of mischief involved.

"Tierney, what did you do?" the king asked, and knew that he was spot on with his suspicions when the prince's smile widened entirely too much.

"So, I heard the esteemed ambassador talking about…oh, what was it, a missing Skenian airship?" Prince Tierney oozed, practically shivering with glee. The king cocked an eyebrow.

"Tierney…did you do what I think you did?"

"Oh, Father, of course not. How could I possibly have stolen an airship, since, you know, 'we are weaponless, and even if we did have our navy, none of our ships could fly'?"

"…you know, that is actually a very good question. How DID you do it?"

"Do what, Father Dearest?"

"Steal the ship?"

"Father, I told you. It was not me. I swear."

And yet, his mischievous expression said otherwise.

End of Chapter 2! Leave me reviews if you liked it, folks!

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Author's Notes: I can't believe…I just wrote this entire thing in one sitting. Basically. Well, not really, I had to walk from my friend's apartment back to the dorm, and I had two bowls of Honey Nut Cheerios, but it has been on my mind since early this evening. Hot damn. Well, I've introduced you to the story's main Lord, and mentioned some historical stuff. Looks good.

Read and review, guys! You know the warm, fuzzy feeling you get when you see that you have a review? Wouldn't you like to give someone that feeling? Pick me!


	3. Terror Moon

Disclaimer: I do not own Fire Emblem. But I just bought a book recommended to me by a member on here, so I do own that. We'll see if I can actually sit through this one, because the last few I've attempted have left me…well, bored. Not with the books themselves. With myself, while reading them.

Author's Note: This medication I'm on blows. My lips are dry as hell, and I'm dealing with near-constant nosebleeds. It's working, though. Only a few more months…I've been doing quite a bit of planning on this story, and I'm still unsure how I'm gonna work things geographically, but luckily I've got a few chapters to figure it out. This chapter is probably going to introduce a recurring character or two, but I'm not sure. I don't even know what's going to happen in it yet. I'll play it by ear.

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Chapter 3 – Terror Moon

The chamber was gargantuan, a hollow megalith that smelled of brine and echoed the sounds of the mild seas crashing against the rock walls separating it from the open ocean. The lighting was dim and consisted mainly of sunlight filtering through small tunnels in the ceiling, as well as the gaping hole facing the Desiderata Sea. Further up, on the tiers of land within the cavern that the light from below could not reach, torches lined the mossy, moist walls and the stretches of wooden rope bridges spanning the chasms between traversable stone paths. It was an area where the children of Avenghelst would, in simpler, less dangerous times, spend their days basking in the cool, dark atmosphere, engaging in children's games and catching small fish in the tide pools on the lower rock outcroppings. These days, though, kids were often kept as close to home as possible. While no one was worried that their children were in any major danger from the intruding Skenian soldiers, they didn't think it wise to let a child stray too far from adult sight. Perhaps it was just the blanket of paranoia covering the town thanks to the sudden introduction of an intimidating force, or perhaps the parents were afraid that the children would not be able to silence themselves from spreading things they'd heard around the house. Whispers of rebellion, even from a source as unreliable as a child, were grounds for imprisonment.

Near the corners of the vast granite ceilings, a series of small wooden huts had been constructed, and from the fresh look of the wood, fairly recently. Candlelight flickered in many of the square cut out windows and a sporadic few townsmen milled about between the elm structures, the faint sounds of their conversations reverberating off of the cavern walls and dying amidst the sounds of low waves breaking.

The people here were a special variety of people. For the most part, they were Kralic, with appearances characteristic of that fact. Some wore their hair short, some tied it back into a ponytail, and some had no hair at all. Facial hair was prevalent in many fashions, from light moustaches to full-grown beards, the dark strands covering the pristine pale skin most of them toted. Their clothes were lightweight and simple, colored brightly, or sometimes not at all. But it was not their appearances, however slightly varied, that united these people. It was their allegiance. Avenghelst was under siege, there was no question about that, at least, to these people. It may not have held to the normal standards of a siege – a town or castle surrounded until those inside were starved out, or worse – but key factors were in place for this invasion to be considered one. For instance, military investment had already begun. Any and all goods being shipped or carted into Avenghelst fell under the scrutiny of their Skenian overlords. All shipments were inspected to ensure that illegal materials were not being smuggled into the country: guns, thaumaturgical devices, and other things of the sort. Even soft food items had to be searched, just to verify that nothing had been hidden inside the mushy mantle of a watermelon, or under the fluffy layers of a vanilla cake. Travelers in and out of the town were subjected to extensive search and seizure protocols ensuring that, once again, no illegal activities could come to fruition. Air traffic, via zeppelin or otherwise, was prohibited over the nation, to circumvent the possibility that contraband would be dropped in the wilds of Kralin for anyone to pick up and use on Skenian occupants. One exception to this rule was, of course, Skenian airships, which were given free roam of the territory.

This siege, as far as these cavern-dwellers were concerned, had to stop. It was only a matter of time until Kralin, or at the very least, Avenghelst, fell under enemy control, and not just in practice, as it was currently. If Skene was not driven out of the city, then Kralin could kiss its sovereignty goodbye. The Esteemed Oligarchy would force the nation's surrender, and if that wasn't bad enough, it would give Skene a stepping stone toward their next target: The Immaculate Empire of Nevehan. And with Emperor Blanc's sudden illness…

Sitting on a barrel near one of the elm huts, Tierney brushed his chocolate bangs from his eyes, sweeping them sideways as he suddenly remembered the emperor. He'd never claim that the man was like a father to him; after all, Tierney had a perfectly good father, one that he rather liked, and Odyffer's interactions with the young prince were few and far between. Adriana, though, was a far different tale. Tierney's birth ravaged his mother's womb; though the physical damage had been reversed by royal clerics, she never regained her ability to mother children, so the prince grew up without siblings. Tierney, as a child, was never around many others of his own age, except for, on rare occasions, Princess Adriana Blanc. These rare occasions turned into heavy bonding experiences for the two young nobles. By now, Tierney saw the dark-skinned woman as a sister. He was starting to wonder if perhaps the princess was expecting him to pay a visit, after the incident with her father arose. He would have already, the night he heard of Odyffer's disturbance, if not for the fact that the royal family was not being allowed out of the city.

But then again, Krals were not allowed to have guns or ships, either. Tierney's contemplation much resembled the pistol twirling around his finger; circular in pattern, jumping between the emperor's coma, Adriana's limited military experience, King Dourmn's inability to push the occupation out, and another, more personal matter.

He set the pistol down atop the barrel and stood up, stretching his arms above his head with his weight distributed across his tip-toes. A low, round part of the ceiling brushed against the ends of his fingers as he wiggled them, ending the stretch with a gyration of his head, cracking his upper vertebrae, a sound that he could hear lightly echo through the chamber. A breeze blew in from a small hole above him and he planted his hands inside his pockets, stepping forward to a rope rail stretched in front of him and gazing down at the bay.

The bay was packed with stolen ships, ranging from simple wooden clippers to fully equipped Kralic military vessels. Unfortunately, none of their military's flagships made it through Skene's initial sweeps. Tierney was not sure where his ship, the _Silent Angel_, ended up, but he couldn't help imagining it smoldering in a blackened pile of ash in a deep pit where no wind could hope to remove the forsaken particles from the cursed Skenian earth. Some ships stood out above all others, though. The tallest ship of them all was their most recent catch; the Skenian cruiser, a behemoth of steel and clockwork, with a lightly bronzed color and several cannons sticking their little heads out of the sides of the hull. Tierney could see people crawling in and around the cannons, inspecting them, seeing what about Skenian weaponry made it so deadly. Many of Tierney's men were in the process of polishing the deck of the cruiser, washing the blood out of the metal seams. If the ship was going to be fit for their lord, then it would have to be spotless.

The other standout was separate from the rest of the fleet, unlike the cruiser. It looked a lot more like the Kralic ships, with a wooden hull and sails rigged in the case that the steam engine gave out, but parts of it differentiated it from the cookie-cutter designs that the Kralic used to build their navy; namely, the unique decorations and the colors reflecting that this vessel belonged to no nation. It was a pirate ship, and a fairly prolific one, at that. The name was simple, yet powerful, and the crew was relentless and cold; led by their captain, a man known to many as "The Ruthless Gentleman," but to his crew as Halvard Schenkkan, the sailors of the _Terror Moon_ struck fear into the hearts of Skenians everywhere. Halvard had what some would call a "boogeyman" reputation for the blonde, emerald-eyed denizens of the Esteemed Oligarchy. Concerned mothers would tell their children not to stay out too late, for fear that the Ruthless Gentleman would take them away in the night. Young women, in the prime of their lives, would travel in pairs, with their peers or their suitors, when walking home in the night, afraid that the Ruthless Gentleman and his pirate crew would tie them up and haul them off to parts unknown. Even the men, who consistently played the hero in the minds of fearful women, felt the pump of adrenaline in their hearts when they heard something unexpected just within earshot, or felt the breathing of winter upon their necks, and picked up their step to get home just a few seconds earlier. Just a few seconds less that the Ruthless Gentleman could attack.

Many were apprehensive about the introduction of the _Moon _to the base. Despite Tierney's constant reassurances about the character of the men and women aboard the ship, a minority still kept an eye on the pirates, wondering if and when they would draw their blades and flints and begin a showdown to claim the ship that they helped acquire. Even more stirring among the Kralic mass was Tierney's decision to accompany the pirates on the night of the assault. They urged him not to go, but he seemed to have a strange longing to join the _Moon_'s crew on their moonlight excursion. A wave of panic swept the cavern-dwellers when they heard the cannon fire that night, but they were relieved to find that Tierney was unharmed, and just a bit shocked to discover that he'd saved the entire crew from death by bullet volley.

But now, after the mission's overwhelming success, the pirates were finally welcomed entirely by the whole cavern. It was a shame that they were leaving that day. Their efforts had helped Kralin immensely, but as far as pirates went, it was rare for them to declare allegiance to any one group for an extended period of time. _Terror Moon_ had to sail sometime. Tierney just wished it wasn't so soon.

He could see that the ship had already begun departure preparations. Tierney's subordinates were helping the crew pack their stuff back onto the ship. He scanned their faces and attire carefully, looking for any he might recognize. It had been by his hand that the _Terror Moon_ had sailed into that beautiful cove off of Desiderata, but he only truly knew two of the pirates on the ship. Halvard – Captain Schenkkan, as Tierney had become accustomed to calling him, in spite of his insistence on having the young lord call him by his first name – had come on the word of his son, Jagger, to aid Tierney. Yet Jagger was nowhere to be seen, nor was his best friend and other half, Clive.

Clive was quite a character in the prince's eyes. While he didn't know him well by any means aside from hearing about him from Jagger, he knew that the guy was quite eclectic. Of course, it only took a look at him to figure that much out. Clive was thin as a rail and a couple inches over six feet, with dark brown hair styled in a way that shared some characteristics with a mohawk, but far messier. His skin was white, whiter the Tierney's, and the dim glow of five o'clock shadows coated his chin and the sides of his face. A light scar was visible brushing the outside of his right cheekbone, a scar that had no battle story behind it, but instead, a story of a night of debauchery, where he'd been swiped by a transsexual he'd been attempting to seduce by accident. Perhaps most intriguing about him was his total disregard for his nation's views on Luck and Chance. Aside from Clive, Tierney had never met anyone from Brakkenhaal who didn't base every single one of their actions on the results of a coin flip, or on the drawing of a tarot card. Yet, even though he didn't heed his nation's commandments, he still dressed according to his lineage. The Arkady family formed from the lesser-known descendants of the King of Diamonds, one of the nation's legendary heroes; thus, Clive's clothing carried a constant red motif, though he balanced it out with black pants most of the time, and his skin was tattooed from collarbone to toe with pictures depicting Brakkenhaal's myths and legends. Both ears were gauged half an inch, and he had viper bite piercings on the left side of his mouth.

Simply put, he scared the living fuck out of Tierney, who'd never seen anyone so decorated.

But Jagger insisted that Clive was one of the best friends he'd ever had, so Tierney was slowly beginning to warm up to the man in red. It didn't help the lord's fear when Clive walked up behind him silently and tapped him on the shoulder, sending him into the rope railing, startled but otherwise okay.

"Prince Tierney," Clive spoke, his voice a low tenor. The lord felt a short spike in energy coming from the painted pirate, and knew exactly what it was. He mentally pushed the spike away, repelling Clive's attempts to read his mind. Like Tierney, Clive was a psionic, though his classification put him into the Force category, unlike Tierney, who fit the Resonant archetype.

"S-s-sir Clive," the prince began, taking in a breath, the first since he'd been snuck up on, "I would appreciate if you could refrain from sneaking up on me; I thought I was alone up here and almost dove to my death just now. Oh, and –"

"Sorry, dude,"

Tierney ignored Clive's lackadaisical approach to communicating with a noble. After all, he was a pirate, and Tierney was used to getting that kind of treatment, especially when Skenians were involved.

"- the mind-reading as well. I am not trying to read yours, so if you please,"

"Gotcha, yeah, sorry. Force of habit, so to speak,"

"Would you like my assistance in preparing for your departure?"

"No, thanks, um…milord. I actually just came up here to tell you that Jagger's looking for you."

Tierney's heart leapt.

"Oh. Well, I am here if he needs me. Unless you know where he is, in which case I will not trouble you with informing him of my whereabouts."

"Last I saw him, he was on the airship."

"Thank you, Clive. Safe travels."

"Ditto, Prince Dourmn. I'll see you," finished Clive, before casually saluting the prince – a gesture Tierney had often seen the pirates using when leaving one another – and walking down the rocky slope toward his ship. The young lord contemplated what his friend could possibly want with him, aside from a goodbye. This was the most likely scenario, as they'd yet to wish each other well, but for some odd reason, Tierney felt almost reluctant to see the pirate. As if something bad would happen if they met.

His reluctance did nothing to stop him from trekking the half mile down the slopes and over to the bridge of the cruiser, where he found a man about his height, a healthy five foot nine, with messy blond hair and blue eyes and a frame more defined than Tierney's. His skin, a sunkissed olive, showed signs of acne scarring in his adolescence, with a select few shallow depressed scars lining his jawline, but with the blonde chinstrap he'd been working on, they were hardly noticeable under normal light. Jagger was dressed in a manner that made him seem as though he was of a higher social class than most of the other pirates on the _Terror Moon_, though this was almost to be expected, since his father was a captain with a reputation for looking gentlemanly. Jagger had a certain air about him though, an aura that made him seem important. He carried his appearance very well, and though he wasn't an authority figure, Tierney could tell that Jagger was a leader by personality.

His green jacket was draped across the monitor of one of the ship's difference engines, and when he saw Tierney enter the room, he grabbed it and began sliding his arms into the sleeves. The jacket was tight and complimented his musculature, and the flared collar added the extra bit of mischief that all pirates wore.

"How's it going, prince?" Jagger asked, his hands now in his pockets. The prince cocked his head.

"Clive said you wanted to see me?"

"Yeah, I just wanted to thank you for last night. We didn't get a chance to talk, and you really saved our asses – ahem, you pulled us out of a tight spot. Just, you know. Thanks."

"It was no trouble at all, I assure you, Jagger. I was the one who orchestrated your entry into this war, so I saw making sure everyone got out uninjured as my duty. Your crew did not have to help us, but you did. It was the least I could do to repay you. You have truly done my nation a great service. I should be the one thanking you, to be perfectly honest."

"Oh, no, don't even mention it, milord."

"Call me Tierney."

"Don't mention it, Tierney."

The two shared a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"So, was that all you needed? Will you be heading up to the ship now?" the prince finally asked, shattering the tension. The blonde nodded, crossing the room over to Tierney's side.

"Good luck with whatever it is that you're planning. If you ever need assistance again, don't hesitate to get in contact with me. You know where we're based, and now that you've got an airship, you should have no problems reaching me."

"Or the rest of the crew, for that matter, should I decide I would rather speak to them," the prince joked. Jagger chuckled.

"Yes, or the rest of the crew. I just figured, you know me the best of all of us, and I can convince the ol' cap'n to get us out here. Hell, I could probably get a fleet out here if I wanted to. The ol' man loves me."

"Thanks again, Jagger."

"Not a problem, prince. Oh, and one more thing," the pirate said, unholstering his pistol and placing it in Tierney's palm, wrapping the lord's finger around the outside of the trigger guard. "She's never done me wrong. Looks a bit weathered, but this beauty's the best damn repeater you'll ever use. Treat her well, yeah? I'll see you around,"

The pirate left the room with the customary _Terror Moon _salute, the sound of his boots echoing in the empty halls of the ship. Those sounds echoed in Tierney's head for a good while, as did the fresh memory of Jagger's presence.

Please review!

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Author's Notes: Got that chapter down. It was done in quite a few sittings. I had a lot of instances where I opened up the file and kind of just sat and stared at it, then opened the planning folder and planned some stuff. Hell, I got 100 chapters to fill, might as well, right? Anyhow, introduced a few more characters…I've yet to determine a lot about Halvard. I know what he looks like and stuff like that, but I don't know what I want to do with him. Clive and Jagger, though…think about it…best friends…Clive dresses in red, Jagger dresses in green…sound familiar? Sound kind of Cain and Abel-like? It is! Also, I'm trying to decide who from FE I want in the story. Perhaps Lloyd, I think I can work him in. I'll contemplate on that while you folks REVIEW! Please.


	4. Noble Lady of Caelin

Disclaimer: I do not own Fire Emblem. But Axel Rudi Pell owns your soul.

Author's Note: I went through my character notes and assigned all of the characters I'm currently using/plan to use classes. Not much else to say here, except this chapter will fulfill the "Heroine" segment of the 100 Themes Challenge. The title of this one says quite a bit, I think.

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Chapter 4 – Noble Lady of Caelin

The territory of Caelin was never much to look at from the perspective of the larger nations. Their military, while nothing to scoff at, was far inferior to both those of Nevehan and Skene, and their land contained few valuable resources aside from the abundant wood in the forests coating the grassy landscape. Politically, they held almost no power; but then again, between the Esteemed Oligarchy and the Immaculate Empire, few did. Those with titles in Caelin or any of the surrounding, similar territories were seen with just a smidgeon more respect by Skenians or Nevehanese than the average Caelinite. Yet, the superior nations often just let the smaller ones be, having no qualms with them aside from the occasional border dispute that would always result in the victory of the larger nation. This was the way Caelin preferred it. They lived a simple life of growing and harvesting, supporting their own townships and villages, ruled over by the lenient, beloved Lord Hausen.

It was hard to believe such a picture of civility could have been born from savagery. It had only been a few decades since the nation of Caelin had been established by a congregation of nomadic tribes, with the help of lesser Skenian nobles such as Hausen. Despite the almost utopian opinion of the nation by others, it seemed as though their reputation for peacefulness and pastoral beauty was going to be their downfall…

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This was war.

No other alternative was presented; no other options were considered. It was clear what the intent of the invaders was. And with everyone gathered in one place like they were, it was an obvious target. They were sitting ducks; nobles lounging cross-legged in dense wooden chairs with soft cushions, discussing trade agreements and world affairs. Ten of them were spread out around the huge round table in Castle Caelin's meeting room, two representatives from each country in the Lysvere Confederacy. Heading the table, of course, was Caelin's ruler, Lord Edric Hausen, a former Skenian who was sent to help develop the Caelin community during their early years. As time passed, Hausen grew to love the nomads populating the fledgling territory, and renounced his Skenian title in order to become closer to the Lorcan people he held so dear. His soft, wrinkled features reflected a life of laughter and joy, though he, like everyone else, harbored a dark emptiness; part of his soul seemed to have died when his daughter, Madelyn, passed away. To his right sat his granddaughter, Princess of Caelin and heir to the throne, the beautiful Lady Lyndis. The people adored Lady Lyndis, and she often spent her time about the town instead of at the castle. Her horses were well-traveled; her noble title had done nothing to squash her nomadic spirit. She was clothed in blue, with her dress held tightly to her torso and slit up the sides, providing maximum range of motion. Her deep green hair, a rarity in the region, was pulled back into a long ponytail reaching down to her waist, and her bright teal eyes viewed the world with clarity.

To Lyndis' right was her betrothed; Prince Cyprian Phillip, the Rock of Taltia. He was quite imposing in full armor, a towering six foot behemoth of muscle and steel, but beneath his cold exterior, Lyn knew he was a sweetheart. Their introductions to one another were recent, perhaps only a year earlier, but their interactions were frequent, and both were happy to unite their houses for both political purposes and purposes of their own blossoming liking for one another. And next to the blue-haired prince of Taltia was his mother, Queen Florinda Bernadette-Phillip, a homely but fiery woman with a reputation for getting things done. Her word was law, and laws were not often broken in Taltia. When they were, she saw to it personally that the law was not violated again. Because of this, opinion on the queen was split; some viewed her as a perfect ruler, while others thought she was unnecessarily harsh. Regardless, she was approaching the end of her years, so Taltia had already begun anticipating the performance of their next prospective queen, Lyndis.

Beyond Queen Taltia was a fairly young couple, from a fairly young nation; the Republic of Delsey had only formed half a decade earlier. The president, Lady Aurelia Fiona, a round woman in professional attire, sat next to her husband and treasurer, Marius Roussel, a Nevehanese immigrant to Lysvere whose obsidian skin and sanguine hair denied him entry into the Skenian "land of opportunity" (a term he used with great sarcasm). He, too, was rotund, though not to the same degree as his wife. Both of them sat quietly and only interjected when called upon; it was clear that they were not yet entirely used to their authority.

Caraholm's representatives had the odd attribute of being twins; Princes Victor and Cole Warrens were only distinguishable by the former's more serious disposition and the latter's lack of respect for the others around the circle, save for the Lady Lyndis, who he found to be stunningly gorgeous. The lady did not return Cole's sentiments.

And lastly, the Count of Vanivio stood to the left of Lord Hausen, his arms crossed over his massive chest; despite the man's age, he was known for his berserk strength, and unfortunately also for his fits of anger. He'd been able to keep himself in check for weeks at this point, though. The other representative from his nation was a dancer in his court, a sweet young thing with wavy blonde hair named Hazel. She held no political sway, but Count Faramond Antony Alaric found that she was excellent at calming his temper with her beauty; thus, she was allowed into the meeting room. Aside from her, the count trusted no one enough to allow them to convene with other nations. Faramond was looked to with an equal degree of admiration and suspicion. He was known to be a brilliant military tactician, and had earned his territory by force, leading an army formed from mercenaries and untrained recruits to victory against the Skenian city-state of Vanivio. The suspicions were raised from his alleged interactions with the notorious Moretti pirate clan, but he refused to comment on those allegations.

Their descent was marked with the firing of the main cannons; until the unmistakable crack of the gunpowder weapons, no one had even seen them coming. The reflective gray hulls of the steel ships were almost invisible against the wretched storm clouds that crept into the nation early that morning, unexpected and unwanted. Much like the invaders.

The initial volley was sensed with an air of slight alarm and bitter confusion by the roomful of nobles. At first, they were unsure of what they'd heard. In their minds, it had been the most odd-sounding whip of thunder that they'd ever experienced. But they became suddenly, very painfully aware of the danger outside when a cannonball came crashing through the glass wall at the south end of the room. The glass fell from the metal frame like confetti, showering the burgundy carpeting with shards of violent red and sickly green, and the wind carried sheets of rain in through the fresh hole. A crack of lightning behind the fleet of ships exposed them to the nobles in the room; by this point, everyone had stood from their chairs in a panic. Cyprian grabbed Lady Lyndis and held her close, but she threw his arm off and reached for Lord Hausen, helping him away from the table and through the doorway.

"Everyone out! Now!" the lady called back to the room, jarring a few of the nobles to action. The twin princes helped the overweight Delse president from her chair and guided her toward the door, her Nevehanese husband in close pursuit; the dancer tugged on Count Vanivio's arm as he approached the window, waving his fist at the attackers, cursing them with no regard to whose ears he was violating with his vulgarities, and Cyprian turned to face his mother, who was struggling to remove herself from her chair. Her weak heart was pounding beyond its limits; if not for the cannonball coming through the ceiling seconds later and thoroughly flattening her, spraying ribbons of blood and bone across the wood and carpet in her vicinity, it surely would've given out.

Cyprian watched wide-eyed as his mother was crushed by the cannonball. Her soft skull folded beneath the force of the steel sphere, giving her hardly the time it would've taken to scream. Her shoulders split, revealing a canyon of gristle and organs which then slipped from inside her to the floor as the ball carried her body downward with the force of a crashing airship. The prince's sense of time warped immediately; he could only see his mother, in slow motion, fast motion, backwards and forward, over and over again. He couldn't tell how long he'd been on his knees in abject misery before Lady Lyndis grabbed him under his arms and dragged him backward from the room, her teal eyes contrasting brilliantly with the deep red of her sclera, dripping with tears.

"Milord! Cyprian, we must go! I beg you, stand, I cannot drag you out of here! There are already infantry storming the gates! We must leave, at once!" the lady pleaded with her fiancée, but he did not hear. His thoughts were only of his mother, the murdered queen of Taltia. And beneath his heartbroken shell, the heat of vengeance began to burn deep inside his chest.

Meanwhile, in the town down the hillside, the streets were beginning to run with more blood than water. Skenian soldiers marched in lines up and down the streets, separating into units of three in front of every home. Armed with pistols and swords, they kicked down doors, or, if they could not kick them down, blew them up and rushed the inhabitants, dragging the women into the street and shooting the children on sight; the men who tried to resist were killed, and the rest were taken outside, where they were lined up on the main road and executed. Buildings were set on fire, often with young children and animals locked inside. The cries of smoldering infants and the yelps of immolated animals filled the Caelin sky almost as heavily as the sounds of rifles cracking and cannons firing. People were savagely beaten with improvised weaponry; their furniture became torture devices, their belongings turning on them in the hands of the Skenian army. It was unprovoked genocide. And from the looks of things, the attack was not just intended for Caelin. With so many Lysvere Confederacy diplomats in the city, it was obvious that this was an attack on the alliance as a whole. The confederacy had no means of fighting back. Citizens had swords, of course, and some hunted by bow and arrow; the occasional younger Caelinite wielded a gun. But the airship fleet alone was enough to destroy any hope the Caelinites had of surviving. They were all going to die.

Heading the gray fleet above, the bringers of death and destruction, was a huge destroyer, the flagship of the Skenian 4th Fleet. If any hope remained in the citizens, it would be crushed upon noticing the _Astyanax_ floating above them. This was the flagship of Guinevere Abendroth, Skene's Lady of War. But Guinevere was no longer aboard the ship.

At the gates of Castle Caelin, a garrison of armored Skenian troops stood, with their rifles trained upon the huge oak door to the castle interior. As people flooded out, the rifles sounded, and the corpses dropped. It wasn't long before those attempting escape realized that the front door was no longer a viable route. When the doors shut, the Skenians advanced. At the front of their charge was a tall woman in a green uniform; the uniform of an admiral. Her short blonde hair was tied back in a tight bun against the back of her head; her jade eyes shone brightly with every flash of lightning. Her officer's sword was drawn as she approached the door ready to swing the gleaming blade. And almost as though unaided by physical touch, the door swung open in front of her as the sky crackled once more. In the main hall stood Cole and Victor Warrens, blades drawn, the brunette twins standing mirrored. At first, the admiral's allies raised their rifles to eliminate the nobles, but she raised her hand, stopping them. She then motioned, an ice-cold look on her face, for the troops to begin searching the castle, to which they replied quickly. Cole and Victor moved to stop them.

"Princes Warren, that won't be necessary. Besides, I doubt the two of you could do much to stop this…cleansing," the woman called to them. As soldiers began scaling the stairways to the several wings that made up the castle, the twins turned to the admiral, with looks of primal hatred.

"Invading a country unprovoked. That's low, even for Skene," Cole called out, and he and Victor began taking steps toward the admiral.

"Oh, nonsense. We're just taking back what's rightfully ours. Lord Hausen was, after all, a Skenian diplomat."

"And I suppose the presence of nobles from each of the confederate nations was just a coincidence, yes?"

"Don't insult me with your petty sarcasm. It was the presence of you 'nobles' that motivated us to attack in the first place, which I'm positive you knew. Killing ten birds with one stone."

"I'm gonna cut your goddamn Skenian head off, you self-serving supremacist bitch," Victor growled at the woman, who struck a fighting pose and bowed her head toward her opponents.

"Greater men than you have threatened that very same thing," she responded, smiling, "Actually, down to the very last word."

"Have at you!"

The twins lunged at her, swinging their blades. Twisting between their swings, her vision blurred; she could feel beads of rain being flung from her body as she maneuvered between the boys, meeting one of their blades with her own and pushing him away, pirouetting and dragging her blade across the taut fabric of Cole's blouse. He felt the blade nick his skin, squeezing a drop of blood out gently. At first, he thought that he'd been lucky to have been missed, but dread overcame him when he realized that the woman was toying with him. She had intended to make that ever-so-shallow cut. They were just playthings to her.

When Victor returned from behind, he thrusted with his sword toward the admiral's back; almost magically, her sword came up from behind to meet his and she deflected him once more, sliding up underneath Cole's arm and ending up behind him. She lifted her blade savagely and in one clean slice, removed Cole's sword arm, weapon and all, from his body. As he howled with pain and fell to one knee, she caught his chin in her hand and brutally wrenched his neck to the side. Flesh tore around his neck as the bone snapped, and limply his mangled head fell to the floor, followed by his dead body, as blood drained from the amputated limb.

"Brother!" cried the enraged Victor, who lost all inhibition and sense of self-preservation, rushing into the woman with his sword in front of him. Sidestepping him and bending beneath his last swing, she drove her sword deep into his spinal cord, twisting it and scraping the outer tissues of his heart; he dropped onto the ground, gasping.

"Two down," whispered the woman coyly, before stomping on Prince Victor's face with her heavy heels. After three or four stomps, she was confident enough that the prince was dead. All around her, she could hear shots firing in the different wings of the castle. Women screamed, children screamed, men roared before their cowardly ends.

The Lady of War sheathed her sword and began her slow, meticulous walk through the castle.

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Lady Lyndis had abandoned her prince in her bedroom. The doors were heavy and locked, and the Skenians she'd seen were not carrying explosives, so she figured he'd be safe there, for now. He was armed, but not armored; regardless, he was a hell of a fighter. She couldn't risk dragging him around, not now. There was something she needed if she hoped to survive. While she knew quite a bit of swordplay, both the refined Skenian method and the quick, explosive, powerful way of the Lorca, wielding the unwieldy Skenian weapons would only hinder her in the end. They were too heavy. In a pinch, it wouldn't be a problem, but she looked down at the stolen Skenian sword in her grip and knew that she could not survive with it alone. She needed the legendary sword. Her sword.

_Mani Katti._

She didn't know where the other lords and ladies, presidents and princes were. She only knew that her grandfather was safe, and her prince was secure. The queen was dead, that much was true, but the rest, save for the Delse diplomats, were able warriors. She didn't fear for them, and refused to think that the Delses were dead. That is, until she rounded the corner to the Chamber of the Holy Blade and saw their intestines spilling out across the hall. She was taken aback by the sight and stench of death; it'd been so long since she'd had to experience it. Her hand instinctively rose to cover her mouth, as if to somehow prevent her from vomiting. It was unsuccessful. Mid-retch, she looked up and realized that the men who killed the diplomats were still there, and they were giving her a very unpleasant eye.

"Lady Lyndis of Caelin. By order of the Esteemed Oligarchy of Skene –"

"Die, you fiends!" she screeched, leaning into a run and swinging her blade with all of her might. The soft mesh of the soldier's bulletproof vest tore as the blade passed through effortlessly, slicing a giant gash in the man's skin. Sliding between his ribs, it shredded his heart, and he fell over, dead before he hit the ground. The other soldier turned and ran as Lyndis dove into the side room, where she could see the sheathed Mani Katti lying on a pedestal.

"Katti…" she sighed desperately, drawing the blade from its sheath and being nearly blinded by the holy light imbuing it. Her vision glittered as she stared at her own reflection in the smooth blade. Her eyes were puffy and her hair was all over the place, but this was her. Seeing her reflection allowed her to see that she was still alive.

"Knock knock," came a feminine voice from the door, carrying a definite Skenian accent. Lyndis turned on her heel with the Mani Katti held between her and the intruder.

"On what grounds have you attacked Caelin?" Lyndis asked, skipping introductions and getting straight to the interrogation. The blonde woman removed her hat, her high forehead blending seamlessly with her platinum locks held tightly to her scalp. Her sword was drawn, but she held it forward almost respectfully, as though she weren't planning on slaying the lady where she stood.

"Relax, Lady Lyndis of Caelin. I am not here to hurt you."

"How can you think that slaughtering all of my people is not going to hurt me? On what grounds has Skene invaded? Answer my question!"

"I meant physically, Lady. We cannot control for emotional anguish. My name is Guinevere Abendroth. Admiral of Skene's 4th Fleet, and daughter of Grand Commander Astyanax Abendroth. It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Lady Lyndis."

"I care not who you are! Answer my question!"

"We're here for you, Lady Lyndis."

"…what?"

"My orders are to apprehend you and bring you to Lona, Skene's capital. If you'll please follow me, we can be on our way in half an hour."

Lyndis stood aggressively, defiantly.

"Lady Caelin, I have been instructed not to harm you. It would be easiest if you would come quietly."

"You have murdered my friends and allies. You have murdered my townspeople, no doubt. This is genocide, Admiral. And for the sake of my people, I will have vengeance."

"I am deeply sorry that you feel that way."

"Can you honestly expect me to believe something like that?"

"No. It was but courtesy; I don't sincerely feel that way at all."

"I will kill you."

"Try."

As the two began to circle one another, another figure appeared in the doorway. He was a hulking specimen of humanity. And Lyndis couldn't be more mortified to see him.

"Cyprian!" she screamed as the admiral turned on a dime, swiftly crossing the room, with unnatural speed, before her blade cut through the prince's neck, and instantaneously his pretty head rolled across the floor, into the center of the makeshift arena where Guinevere and Lyndis were to duel.

The first thing to set in was the rage. The pain of loss fueled it; the adrenaline rush she got from holding a sword propelled her forward blindly, and the blade, as if swinging itself, parried one of Guinevere's swings and cut her across the cheek. Twisting away, she stood, stunned; she'd not been touched by a blade in years. A black, viscous ichor dripped from her face, like dark mucous. She brushed it away as though nothing had happened and shook off the shock of pain. But Guinevere couldn't think; all she could hear was the lady's incessant roars of anger and misery. Blades clashed again and again. Sparks flew, spraying across the blood-soaked carpet; the Mani Katti met the Skenian weapon with an animal passion, two dancers dancing a macabre, grotesque, aggravated dance.

Guinevere gained the upper hand and disarmed Lady Lyndis, the Mani Katti sliding across the floor as the lady fell to her knees. She was crying profusely.

"Admiral…why?" she choked, but the officer did not respond. Instead, she clubbed the princess across the head, knocking her out. She fell to the floor like so many before her, with the vital exception that she was still alive. Guinevere cursed her luck; now she'd have to lug the bitch back to the ship. Brushing a gloved finger across her face, she felt the coagulated mess that dripped from her face when she'd be cut. With curious wonder she glanced to the Mani Katti. A sword with no equal, they said. And only one soul with the gusto to wield it.

Guinevere shouldered the unconscious woman and began her painstakingly difficult trip back to the _Astyanax._

Don't forget to review! I will love you long time if you leave me one!

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Author's Notes: Got another chapter done! These are coming along pretty smoothly, actually. So I had a freakin' weird nosebleed today that consisted more of me spitting blood than it actually coming from my nose. I also stuffed myself full of turkey and am listening to my idiotic family downstairs rooting for the wrong football team. Silly gooses. Anyway, review please! If you've read this far, you're obviously interested enough to review! It takes thirty seconds, fo rizzle.


	5. The Daring Escape: Part 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Fire Emblem. But let's keep that on the DL, stating otherwise is a line I use at the club to pick up boys. Except I don't. Nor do I know of any clubs where something like that would work.

Author's Note: So last night I had ANOTHER spitting nosebleed. It was more annoying because I also started coming down with some weird overnight illness that annoyed me while I was trying to sleep last night and woke me up several times, but then when it was time for breakfast, I was fine. I think Fredericksburg just hates me. Back in Austin, though, and the 'horns won, so that's good news, too. Hook 'Em! This chapter will fulfill the "A Faithful Knight" bit of the 100 Themes Challenge.

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Chapter 5 – The Daring Escape: Part 1

He had a reputation for austerity, a certain flatness to his eyes and his voice that gave him the unfortunate inability to portray his propensity for caring. Most saw him as something of a stone wall, someone who would offer no help for problems beside his cold gaze and that famous expression on his face that forced the feeble to turn away, and those without the adroitness to solve their own problems to turn within themselves for solutions. His hair, lightened by the sun and increasing age, was a healthy mahogany, buzzed short, revealing the widow's peak of a receding hairline. The wrinkles on his face cut through his sunburned skin like canyons eroded from the earth by raging rivers; the ones on his forehead looked particularly abyssal. His body was that of a predator; every muscle in his body was equipped to kill. Coupled with his towering height, nearly a foot taller than the average Kral, he was a horrid sight to his opponents. It was even worse for them that he led Avenghelst's cavalier division; placing him atop a horse made him near-mountainous.

He and the prince stood conversing in the prince's office, a scaled-down version of his father's, complete with kingly busts on the columns and the same Kralic seal in the stained glass window backing the room. The paladin had known Tierney since the young lord's birth, a fact that constantly reminded the older man of his elder status. He'd been something of a mentor to the lad, teaching him the art of swordplay when the royal instructor was not around, and answering all of Tierney's life questions when his parents couldn't be bothered, or when he was too embarrassed to ask them. In terms of relationships, Tierney and the paladin were all but uncle and nephew; King Leuther's predecessor adopted the paladin in earlier, more agreeable times, and they'd grown up as brothers. In fact, if Leuther hadn't recovered from a nasty illness in his adolescence, Silvain Feuilly very well may have become the next king of Kralin.

"Milord," Silvain insisted, "I implore you, reconsider. This plan…I will admit, it is well-crafted, but placing Captain Linova under the stress that would be required to carry it out is madness! You recall what happened to you when you used your abilities to protect those _Terror Moon_ scoundrels? You were incapacitated for a full thirty minutes. This could _kill_ her. If you insist on this mad escape, there must be some other way. Why not just fly the airship out?"

"You and I both know the answer to that, Silvain. And were the circumstances not so dire, I would reconsider. This is our nation we are talking about. Without help, we stand no chance against being conquered. And once we're conquered, Skene builds factories on the salted remains of our city. Those factories produce airships, and with us so geographically near to Nevehan, we are as close to a backdoor as they are going to get. The airships invade Nevehan, and then we have nothing left. Nevehan is at an incredibly vulnerable point in their history. I have much respect for the empress, but I am perhaps _too_ aware that she is not ready to fill her office. We have to stop this now, before it escalates."

"Milord, there are so many factors in looking at the future. Nevehan is powerful. I have met with many of their military strategists; they are geniuses. Nevehan will not fall easy to Skenian invasion."

"In your experience, Silvain, have you not noticed that any hint of strategy moving into a battle is immediately and thoroughly destroyed upon first contact with the enemy?"

"In my experience, what you have said holds true."

"As I have repeatedly stated, my mind cannot be changed. The plan will go as I have ordered."

"Prince, what does your father think of this madness? Surely he, of all people, would be against this."

"He does not know."

The paladin's expression turned from that of a steel wall to that of a buffoon; he was dumbstruck.

"You have not bothered to inform the _king_ of your plan? What…what…milord, I must protest!"

"Yes, yes, I am aware. What else is new with you?"

"When the king finds out about this insolence…"

"He will not. At least, not until I am long gone. He will understand, I am sure."

"How can you be sure?"

"Call it instinct. We are a lot more alike than you might think."

Silvain was frustrated with the boy, but more and more, he found the boy's confidence to be inspiring. This was an abnormal occurrence; normally, he'd hear someone's ardent refusal to listen to reason and would do everything in his power to convince them, resorting to violence if necessary. Tierney, though, for some incredibly odd reason, brought about a dense optimism in the aging man's heart. He didn't want to believe that the boy might be right about all of this, about this mad escape plot. But he did.

"If you are determined to go through with this, my liege…then I will be by your side every step of the way."

Tierney perked up at this news, his characteristic smirk tugging at his facial muscles. It had only been a matter of time until Silvain cracked. As usual. For a man as headstrong and willful as Silvain, as unquestionably wall-like, he had a way of crumbling to Tierney's little schemes. The prince suspected that the paladin only argued to keep up appearances, though the evidence proving his theory was on the circumstantial side.

"Excellent. We already have a stable on the lower decks of _Cold Heaven_ ready for your horse."

Silvain began to contest Tierney's presumption that the paladin would be in on their scheme, before hearing the name that the prince had come up with for the ship.

"_Cold Heaven, _eh? Hmm…I like it. The mythological overtones give an air of importance, while the descriptor implies some sort of fundamental flaw…our humanity, that is…I like it. It doesn't exactly strike fear into the hearts of enemies, but the name will be known far and wide."

"I certainly hope not. I do not want to pick up notoriety in this monstrosity. I only need it to get to Addy…Empress Blanc, I meant to say. And I did not intend any of that when I named it; I only thought _Cold Heaven_ had a pleasant ring. And who says my humanity is a flaw?" the prince questioned, before being interrupted by a light knock at the door; he gave permission for it to be opened, and a woman walked through. She was around Tierney's height, but two decades his senior; her dark hair fell blandly to her shoulders, and her soft-featured face was rather plain by Kralic standards, but this didn't stop her pursuit of a husband. She'd been happily married for fifteen years, and bore three children, the oldest of whom was a knight-in-training at Castle Kralin. Tierney was acquainted with the boy and rather admired his charisma and sword arm. In time, he'd be a fine knight, but as the son of the town guard's captain, this was almost expected of him.

"I hope I am not interrupting, my liege," she began, turning her sight to Silvain, "but the king has requested to see you in his office."

"I have just met with King Dourmn this morning, what in the blazes could he poss-"

"It is fine, Captain Linova. I have managed to convince Silvain to join me; there is no need to divert him from the room. Anything you have to say, you can now say in front of him."

"Ah, I see. Good, because I'm sure at this point the king is beginning to question why I keep sending people his way without his orders. Anyways, what I came here to tell you, prince, is that I have gotten everything figured out. My role has been set; I can get your ships close to the blockade, but not all the way. I am thinking perhaps they will cover 70 or 75% of the distance to the blockade before my skills stop working. That should give you enough time to get out of here, if your ship is fast enough. I would recommend doing it under the cover of night. Those new searchlights may cover most of your route, but the odds of them seeing you are much lower if they are distracted with the fleet we are sending at them."

"That was the plan. Thank you for this, Vetlyata. You are doing this nation a great service."

"I live my life to serve this nation. That is my motivation for helping you; if I do not, then odds are, I will be serving Skene soon enough. And probably not as a guard captain, either. The idea of washing the feet of some disgusting Skenian mongrel does not appeal to me, my liege."

"But won't the night make it difficult for you to see the ships? I thought sight was integral to your powers."

"It is. It will not be a problem, trust me. I have already factored that in."

"I cannot begin to express my gratitude, Captain Linova. Honestly."

"Honestly, Prince Dourmn. This is nothing. I only ask that you give my regards to the ill emperor and my hopes to Adriana."

"That I promise."

"Then, my friend, we are even. That said, I take my leave of you two. Gentleman," she finished, bowing to the prince and Silvain before departing the room, shutting the heavy door behind her.

Silvain and Tierney shared silence as the latter approached his desk, falling quickly into his thick chair, his posture slumped and improper, but Silvain knew better than to correct the future king. It was not his place, though he was the boy's elder; Tierney may have been young, but he was still an adult, free to do as he pleased. Regardless, it still irked Silvain. The paladin sat down across from the prince and shook his head.

"Speak, Silvain. I would like to hear your opinions on this, on the off chance that they have changed from your insistence on abandoning the plan."

"Milord…you have gone batty."

"Perhaps."

"But I think I have come up with a problem you have yet to address."

"As they say, 'hit me with your best shot,' Silvain," the prince purred, eager to see what the wise man would throw at him next.

"Will Skene not see the ships as an act of war? We are, after all, attacking them…this could very quickly turn into a losing battle for us. Very quickly. Instantly, even. They've got troops in every home save yours."

"Is that all?" was the prince's response. He blew a stray lock of hair from in front of his eye and leaned in to finish off the paladin's doubts.

"They will not recognize the ships as Kralic in origin. Well, perhaps in origin, but not in practice. We learned much from the _Terror Moon_, Silvain, as much as you despised them. Our ships fly sails and flags declaring independence from all nations; they fly the typical colors of pirates. Furthermore, we will not be attacking with the ships. No cannons will fire. We are merely pointing them in the direction of the blockade and sending them on their way. If the Skenians are not already destroying them at first sight, then when they get close enough, the armada is mulch. By that time, I will have skirted away in the airship, hopefully unnoticed. Our nation has done nothing wrong; they have no evidence against us. If they ask the king, my father, he will be earnest in his denial of knowledge of the 'attack.' He will probably mention that, 'in all likelihood, this baffling event was perpetrated by the same pirates who robbed you of your airship a fortnight ago.' We arrive in Nevehan days later, we return with Nevehanese assistance, and everything returns to normal. I think it sounds like a wonderful plan, and that is not just because it is of my design."

"You presume a lot about the intelligence of Skenians. But…perhaps your plan is sound. Very well, my lord. I will take my leave of you as well; I am sure you have got quite a bit left in terms of preparation. Best of luck. Let me know when you are ready for my assistance."

"Thank you, Silvain. Your assistance speaks a great deal about your character."

"Yes, milord. It says I am a fool."

Thanks in advance for the REVIEW you're about to leave!

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Author's Notes: So I wrote the note at the top of the page last night, and this note is from tonight: That illness tricked me into believing it was gone. I'm sick. And I've got a paper to write tomorrow and three tests to study for. Joy to the world. Oh well, this chapter is done. It's short compared to others, but it serves its purpose, to introduce the Jeigan character. Could've dragged it out a couple more pages, but I didn't see much of a point. The next chapter will probably be longer than normal, but not as long as Chapter 8 will be…anyway, read and REVIEW, ladies and gents!


	6. The Daring Escape: Part 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Fire Emblem. I just own you

Author's Note: I've decided to divert from the 100 Themes formula. It's too restrictive, although it will continue to play a minor role in structuring the story. Despite that, this chapter will fulfill the "The Critical Moment" segment of the challenge. Actually…you know what? I might still fulfill the entire 100 Themes list. But if that happens…this will be a LOOOONG fic.

Also, I want to mention that the Guinevere introduced in Chapter 4 is in no way related to the Guinevere in FE6/7. The only thing really shared between them is that they're both blonde. I just like the name, really.

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Chapter 6 – The Daring Escape: Part 2

A chill breeze blew in off of the ocean that night, a salty series of gusts that enveloped the stale inner sanctum of the tower when Vetlyata pulled open the deceptively feathery wooden door to take her place atop the spire. It was a quarter to midnight; she'd never been one for punctuality, but with no means of communicating across long distances, she hardly had a choice in the matter. It didn't irk her, though, for she was serving a great purpose this night. Tierney's escape would be the first victory in their path to freedom from this less-than-ideal period of Kralic history. Ever the optimist, she ignored the constant droning of her subconscious, looping a message about "the best laid plans of mice and men" as she surveyed the seascape, the crescent moon casting a dim light on the water and the indistinguishable horizon. She silently wished for some sort of lightning to flash at the edge of the sky, but the weather was predicted to be uncannily clear that night. She cursed her luck, finding it just minutely ironic that she, of all people, was wishing for bad weather, for her father had been lost at sea years ago due to such storms.

As the seconds ticked by, she found herself growing more anxious. Isolation was always one of her fears, partly due to the loss of her father as a child and partly due to an inherited anxiety disorder. But even sitting atop the tower, alone, she realized that this was not the source of her worries. She doubted herself. For the first time, she was unsure of whether or not she could successfully work her magic. In her mind, she held the young prince's life in her hands, and if she could not keep the Skenian blockade preoccupied, he would die. And if that happened, she would ensure that she didn't have to answer to the king. She would toss herself from the tower. It wasn't that she feared judgment from King Dourmn, but rather that she couldn't stand to look at him if she were the one responsible for Tierney's end.

Throwing her legs over the stone windowsill, Captain Linova hoisted herself into the opening, now able to feel the full force of the ocean winds, and as her vision adjusted to the somber midnight, she could see the pinpricks of light on the horizon, barely visible in the portholes lining the steel hulls of the naval blockade. Every one of the leviathans was an indestructible fortress, a reflection of technological superiority. Their power was unmatched, and one of the only reasons that Skene had yet to cease production on their seafaring vessels in favor of airships. Airships, while faster than anything the navy had to offer, were severely lacking in firepower and defenses by comparison. Vetlyata was unsure why, but suspected that a ship as heavily armored as the destroyers that brushed the horizon was far too heavy to fly. By making the ship lighter (and in the process, less durable), flight could be achieved using steam engines enhanced through thaumaturgy. Vetlyata could only hope that the airship's speed would keep Tierney safe.

"Or he could just fly really high…" the captain mumbled to herself, knowing that it would take a lot of distance for the ship to rise to a great enough altitude to cloak it from view. She removed a small paper bag from her pocket and emptied its contents into one of her gloved hands. She wasn't much of a smoker, but a little tobacco now and then never hurt, and in this high-stress situation, it definitely could not hurt. Packing the pipe in her other hand, she took a deep breath of the fresh sea air, striking a match against the sole of her boot and suckling the end of the wooden device carefully, savoring the flavor of the homegrown tobacco. Ten minutes, she realized.

She saw her skills as a form of art. In a way, it was a lot like sculpture, or painting; she took a blank canvas, or a hunk of unrefined marble, and with meticulous trepidation began forming an overall idea, an amorphous concept that over time would shift into a recognizable shape. Her canvas was the dreamscape; her paintbrush, the mind. Evoker psions were a rarity among rarities; while only one in a thousand people were born psions, only one in a thousand psions were born evokers. Evokers held to a strict code of conduct to avoid overuse or abuse of their unique gifts, but even if this code did not exist, their scarcity prevented world endangerment.

Her ability had deep-seated associations with alteration of perception. As the name "dreamscape" implied, she could create a sort of pseudo-world within the fabric of reality, and like the master of some kind of incredibly vivid hallucination, she could control everything within it. If she wished, she could set the whole canvas aflame and begin anew. Or, if it should tickle her fancy to summon a few creatures of the night to do her bidding, nothing could stop her. Tonight's plan reflected her prince's last; she would be summoning false humans. This time, though, instead of sending them for a pretended assault upon the city's defense towers, they would be manning a stolen fleet of wooden ships in a rush against the blockade in hopes of distracting them from Tierney.

She didn't have a problem believing that she could man the ships. It was a simple matter of steering, and she had, in times of need, been able to control the consciousnesses of dozens of evocates at once. She was just unsure that she would be able to keep the dreamscape alive at such distances. So many essences needed to be emulated, and each one would eat away at her concentration, a slowly dwindling and precious resource that would already be wasting away forming the vast ethereal plane she would operate from. But she had to do it. She had to be strong enough.

"You've got this, babe," Vetlyata whispered to herself, with the barest hint of self-doubt.

------

He found the bridge shockingly uncomfortable, although he was hoping that he was just far too anxious about the coming moments to settle into the leather buttoned throne. He rested on a platform raised a couple of feet above the rest of the room, surrounded on all sides by fencing, except for the opening directly ahead that dropped into a small set of stairs. His sailors had all approached their stations and begun escape preparations minutes ago; no one wanted to be a second late for this dangerous endeavor. Unfortunately, in all the time they'd been working with this atrocious factory clusterfuck, they'd yet to figure out exactly what every switch and lever on the consoles did. That was probably what Tierney was most afraid of. His opinion, and a well-educated one, at that (if you took his word for it), of Skenian intelligence was rather low. It was an unavoidable by-product of exposure to Ambassador Stas and his inability to come up with a single intelligent thing to say in the face of Kralin's king. How did the prince know that some idiot in the Skenian engineering department didn't install some sort of self-destruct mechanism on the main control panel of the ship? And if that were the case, it would have to be unmarked, like every other button or slot. One accidental drop of a pinky finger and BOOM! No more Tierney, no more _Cold Heaven_, and no more rebellion. That would be goodbye for Kralin, too; without Tierney, it seemed no one was willing to take action. Although, in the end, Tierney supposed it would be a tad poetic, in the most undesirable way, to be undermined by the enemy's utter incompetence.

He couldn't help but tap his fingers on the wooden armrests, wondering why, of all the unnecessary comforts and luxuries on the airship, no one had thought to cushion them. His observations continued sporadically as he watched a chronometer at the head of the room tick slowly toward midnight. That was one calculation he was positive was correct; the synchronization of the ship's timekeeper with Captain Linova's had been painstaking in its accuracy. They might not have been able to communicate, but she would know exactly when the ships were set to sail when the second hand on her watch concealed the hour hand upon the stroke of 12:00.

Thankfully, the steering mechanisms on the Skenian machine were still the same as the ones the Krals were used to. Standing at Cold Heaven's helm was a lad as young as the prince, and just as handsome, though his face was a grade more defined than Tierney's. His mahogany hair flowed almost red in the electrical lighting of the ship, and the green lights from the screens of the manned consoles bent around his sharp chin and high cheekbones from below, giving an almost sickly, supernatural glow to him. Coupled with his radiant blue eyes, his coloration resembled a portrait of nobylity*, or at the very least, a caricature of it. His name was Grid Teva. A childhood friend of Tierney's, his parents were the most respected merchants in Avenghelst, and the richest as well. Some saw him as the town's civilian prince, and it was a title he wore well. His amicable friendship with Prince Dourmn only cemented the civil nobility idea further. When Tierney first thought up his escape scheme, Grid was the first townsman to know, and the first to join up with him.

Tierney admired the helmsman for many reasons. First and foremost, he was an experienced sailor, and had been helming ships for the entirety of his twenty years. This proficiency made him useful for Tierney's purposes, though any sailor could probably pull off the job that they were planning. What was more important than his skill at the wheel was that Tierney trusted him more than anyone else. Though they'd had their squabbles over the years, they always had each other's backs. In several of Tierney's less proud moments, he'd gotten Grid out of trouble with the law, always warning him that one of these days, the prince wasn't going to be able to pull any more strings. Despite his stern admonishments, Tierney knew that he'd always be there to pull Grid out of the fire at a moment's notice, and Grid knew this as well, and tried his hardest not to take advantage of that knowledge. Tierney also admired the animal strength with which Grid wielded his axe. He'd only had the pleasure of dueling the beast twice, and both times he found himself very quickly subdued. Grid had never boasted about his victories over the refined and trained prince, however; in every story he told, Tierney was the victor. He knew that the prince's reputation was more important than that of a simple merchant's son. His powerful, hard body and the beauty of his fortitude earned him the nickname, "The Tiger of Avenghelst."

Grid turned around with a cheeky grin on his face. "What's the matter, captain? You seem nervous," he called across the bridge, catching the eyes of the select couple operators who were not completely invested in their incubation. Tierney protested, claiming excitement, not nerves. Grid, as usual, didn't buy it. Tierney's rebuttal was enough to throw off the operators, but not his friend. The helmsman turned and approached the prince, climbing up the steps and crouching in front of him. They made eye contact for a few seconds, the prince's expression unchanging and emotionless.

"You don't look so hot, son," Grid said to his leader, who simply blinked.

"What do you mean?" Tierney asked him, puzzled.

"Well, for starters, your incessant tapping is probably the most overpowering sound I've ever heard in my life."

"Bite me."

"Touchy, are we? All right, all right. Seriously though, you doin' okay?"

"I'm fine, Grid. I don't know what you are so worried about."

"Are you sure? I mean, really sure?"

When Tierney gave no reply, Grid knew that something was up. It made sense. It was very possible that the two of them, along with every other rebel on the ship, were about to fly headlong into an explosive death. Who wouldn't be a little nervous? Grid was a little nervous, but because it was up to him to make sure they didn't die, he was able to keep his mind occupied with tactical thoughts. But it wasn't like Tierney to become a trembling husk like this.

"I don't know, Grid. I think it's the fact that I've never really flown before. It's nothing, I assure you, it'll pass as soon as we're up in the air."

Grid was dumbfounded. While he was no expert in the air, he was shocked that someone could be afraid of flying. What was wrong with flying? Flight was the epitome of freedom; mankind had dreamed of being able to fly since the very first time they saw a bird fluttering through the sky. How could Tierney be afraid of freedom? Unless the Skenian occupation had rubbed off on him and he was becoming one of those helpless, oppression-loving mongrels…

"Tierney, really? You're afraid of _flying_? I mean, snakes, I can understand that, or fire, or hell, even weather…but _flying?"_

"Like I said, Grid, I've never done it before!"

"You stole this ship!"

"I know, I know! But it wasn't flying, it was floating, and I was basically unconscious during the descent, in a room where I couldn't see out the windows. I couldn't tell we were flying!"

"But that's all, though, right? You don't know about some engine problem that you're keeping under wraps, right?"

"Nothing like that, no. It's just the flying part."

"Well, good. Then you'll be fine. We're up in five, I suggest you get ready to do…whatever the fuck it is that you're doing here. Captaining or whatever."

"Thanks for the support, ass."

"At least I'm consistent with it, right?" Grid said, giving Tierney a playful punch on the arm and returning to his post at the helm. As he did so, Tierney stood to stretch his legs and to avoid tapping anymore on the vexatious wooden chair. He crossed over to the metal railing and placed the sole of his black boot upon it, leaning into the stretch and feeling the light pulling in his hamstrings. The burn was relaxing, but not as relaxing as it was to see Silvain come in through the steel door nearby.

"My liege, I just thought I'd take the time to-"

For whatever reason, the sound of Silvain's voice grated on Tierney's wracked nerves. He was sure that the paladin had come to try and shoot down the plan with a last-minute plea.

"-inform me that there is still time to back out of this insane task? Thank you, Silvain, really, I appreciate that you care for my well-being, but we're moments from setting sail, and I honestly think we've crossed the point of no return here. This is going to happen, no matter how apprehensive you may be about it."

Silvain looked disbelievingly at the prince, whose sudden snap at the paladin was incongruous with his normal behavior. The prince seemed to realize he'd be avoidably grating, and his face showed his apology. Silvain saw the boy manning the helm look back with a smirk; Grid wasn't surprised that the prince had lashed out.

"…I was just going to say that everyone on the lower decks is praying to Risse for the safe execution of this plan. I thought that was something you might like to know. I apologize for the interruption."

The prince was suddenly ridden with guilt, and he outlined his sincerest apologies to his elder, who accepted it without question, understanding the stress that Tierney must be under at the moment. He left the room silently, and Tierney went back over to his chair, bowed his head to his hands, clasped them together palm to palm, and prayed.

------

Above the ocean, just outside of the lagoon and several hundred feet higher than the stone atoll's peak and Avenghelst's defense towers, Skene's two patrol airships floated beside one another, facing opposite directions. They were almost rail to rail, and their decks were aligned with a millimeter's discrepancy. At the rails, the ship's captains were engaged in conversation. All around them milled sailors tending to their duties, whatever their duties might be. The ships were almost identical to the _Cold Heaven_, though their names were less creative than the one Tierney had come up with; the _Warrior IV _and the _Outlaw II_ were victims of mass production, a process whose proliferation was inversely proportional to Skene's ability to come up with original appellations (interestingly enough, the ship fortunate enough to have been liberated by Kralin and renamed by Tierney was the _Outlaw I_). The _Warrior IV'_s captain was a youthful man by the name of Jan Scholz; his elder by five years on the other ship was Ulrich Neudorf. The two were from the same street in Lona, Skene's capital city, and their families were close. Both had always dreamed of being in the Navy, a dream that evolved over time and exploded when airships were invented. The two of them being assigned to guard Avenghelst's bay was entirely coincidence, and the late hour allowed them to catch up without sloughing off their duties.

"Have you been in the city itself yet? It's rather quaint; there are things here that I've never seen before. Animals they keep for pets, things in the shops. I met the most gorgeous shopkeeper the other day, a redhead named Anna –"

"No, Jan, actually I haven't been off of the ship since I got here. Why would I want to set foot in that backwards city? I hear they don't even have electricity there!"

"In most buildings, no…but Ulrich, most nations outside of our own don't use a whole lot of electricity anyway. Nevehan is picking up on it, but other than that-"

"Yes, so why should I bother with this podunk little town?"

"…you're right, I guess we shouldn't," Jan murmured sarcastically to his close-minded friend, craning his head to see around him. A group of _Outlaw II_ sailors was gathered at the other end of the deck, staring overboard toward the east, chatting amongst themselves and doing an awful lot of pointing. Ulrich noticed Jan's diverted interest and turned to see his men congregating. He pivoted on his heel in a militaristic manner and approached the group with interest, leaving Jan at the railing. Jan, also intrigued, hopped over the railing onto the other ship, taking care not to fall into the small gap between the two, and joined the crowd.

"What's going on?" he asked, before looking down into the ocean. The far-reaching spotlights of the blockade floating out at sea shined upon a bizarre oddity below; what looked to be an armada of wooden ships had floated into the no-sail zone outside of Avenghelst. Their markings made it quite evident who they were; pirates were sailing northwest through the area. The group of seamen chattered amongst themselves.

"Pirates? Here? What in hell…"

"Something's not right about this…"

"What should we do?"

"Attack, obviously!"

"They haven't done anything yet. How do we know attacking is a good idea?"

"Why shouldn't we?"

"Those are Kralic ships, I'd recognize them anywhere," said Captain Neudorf, " They probably prey on Avenghelst and nearby cities. If that's so, then they'd be useful alive. What could they possibly do to us, anyway? Look at them. The inferiority is almost offensive."

"You have a point," came the voice of a sailor, "but there's still something very wrong about this."

"I'm heading back to the _Warrior._ If they pull anything fishy, we lay waste to them. We'll keep watch," said Jan, retreating to his ship. Ulrich nodded in agreement and kept a suspicious eye on the pirate ships, headed almost directly for the blockade.

------

Vetlyata could feel them pulling on the tight fibres connecting her to the false humans, the evocates. There were perhaps a dozen ships, and each one now had an identical man standing at the helm, their stiff arms gripping the wooden wheels tightly and guiding the Kralic triremes against the waves. They shared the same soft Kralic face – a mixture of Vetlyata's own with what she claimed to be the ideal man's – and the same dead blue eyes. They wore the same clothes, cloaked under the same mauve coverings, and they moved almost in unison; Captain Linova only had to adjust her dreamscape slightly to copy the ocean's waves as they passed the ships and brushed their hulls. She realized it would be easier to just level the ocean and cease all currents flowing through her realm, but this could alert the Skenian airships floating above the fleet; it was already odd for anyone to be sailing through a Skenian No-Sail Zone, but to have the oceans flatten out as well? Two events as suspicious as these, occurring at the same time, would have to be connected somehow.

_So far, so good,_ she thought to herself, having guided the ships out of the rocky areas around the atoll and into what was sure to be open seas. A light pain glowed dimly behind her eyes, but she pushed it aside easily. The Skenian patrols had mobilized and were falling in behind the fleet; if Vetlyata was correct, they were preparing for a possible bombing run. This made her nervous. She hadn't seen any indicator that Tierney had left the cove yet, and if the fleet was destroyed now, _Cold Heaven_ would have a difficult time avoiding the sight of the defenders. Adding further to her anxiety was the appearance of red and blue flashing lights on the horizon; the blockade lit up like a firefly-filled forest on a late summer night, alternating strobes of brilliant scarlet and sapphire. They were warning the ships to turn back. But, of course, that was not going to happen. The ships sailed noiselessly on, with the sluggish metal pursuers hot on their trail.

Suddenly, the spotlights in the defense towers erupted with a bright, burning light and directed their eyes toward the pirate armada; seeing them come to life out of the corner of her eye, Vetlyata dragged the edge of her dreamscape over to incorporate the atoll wall, and with it, the towers. The spotlights must've been a new thing, because they certainly hadn't been there the last time the guard captain had gone up to the towers. She wondered where Skene was getting the electricity to run them, for she knew that back in the Esteemed Oligarchy, cables had to be run over great distances to a revolting structure called a "power plant" before electricity could be harnessed. Another thought crossed her mind; how the hell were they powering the airships without the cables?

"Where are you, Prince Tierney?" she asked herself, splitting her focus from the evocates for a second to look over at the wall separating her line of sight from the cove. It was within her dreamscape; she wiped it away, exposing the chamber where Tierney's ships were docked. She could see _Cold Heaven_ rapidly approaching the opening into the Desiderata Sea.

"Here we go…" she thought as she replaced the stone wall, allowing the entirety of her mental strength to focus on the morphs she'd created.

"Captain Linova, what in the blazes are you doing up here at this hour?" she heard from behind. Her heart skipped a beat and she nearly fell through the window, turning around, visibly and violently startled, her brain activity speeding up and overloading, a migraine building deep within the center of her forehead –

_BOOM!_

"SHIT!" she shrieked, finding King Dourmn standing right behind her, his face slack as he stared from the spire toward the defense towers. With a horrified gaze, she realized that she'd not only lost touch with all of the evocates, but in her frightened state had inadvertently fired the cannons of one of the towers she'd pulled into the dreamscape. The king rushed past her and watched where he thought the cannonball might've been heading; the _Warrior IV _and the _Outlaw II_. It was here that he saw the pirate ships passing through, a sight that would've prompted him to action, if they still had a navy.

"What is going on, Captain Linova?"

As he pronounced her name, she saw the blue lights of the blockade shift to red.

"Milord, I think I'll have to explain later,"

"Explain now, Captain!"

"…as you wish," she submitted, trying desperately to fight off her migraine so she could get the dreamscape back up. The red lights cast an eerie, hellish glow over the sea, punctuated with the explosions of gunpowder as the battleships retaliated against the intruders. Vetlyata saw the first ship shudder on impact, the second quake as the front was blown inward by a gleaming silver ball. Pushing her fingertips into her temples, she strained to see her personal plane while the king stood galled behind her, all but tapping his foot.

"Tierney is trying to escape Kralin to request assistance from Empress Blanc!" she managed, the pain in her head building. She collapsed to her knees, hissing through her teeth, and the king knelt beside her, placing his hands on her shoulders.

"Captain, are you okay? Calm down, talk to me, please! Where is he?" Leuther asked. The color faded from his face as he realized that the pirate ships were Kralic.

"Oh my…Tierney!" the king screamed out the window, though his voice was lost to the cannon volleys. He watched the pirate ships sinking slowly, desperately hoping that whichever one Tierney was on would turn back.

"King Dourmn, he's not…ah…he's not out there…no one's out there…"

"Then who was piloting the ships?"

"That was me…ugh…"

"…Captain…"

"I'll be fine…"

"Captain, where is Tierney?"

"They stole an airship. They're flying out tonight…but I was supposed to distract the blockade…"

King Leuther stood up and looked over the sea. The two airships had initiated bombing runs on the pirate armada, which floated, unguided, through waters littered with broken boards from its sunken allies. As hard as he tried, he couldn't see any others in the sky. He could, however, see that the light show had attracted a crowd of citizens marching up from the city. With horror, he turned back to Vetlyata; it was far beyond curfew, and from the looks of the horsemen riding up to meet the crowd…

"Captain, rouse the guard, at once! I've got a horrid feeling about this!" the king commanded, rushing through the door. After a few seconds of silence, he returned to the balcony. "…Captain?"

Vetlyata was sprawled on the floor, a stream of blood pumping steadily from her mouth. One eye was opened widely and she was babbling quietly, incoherently.

"Vetlyata! Captain Linova!"

"I'll be fine, Leuther…leave me…"

The king made the decision to go. He gently stroked the side of Vetlyata's pale face and stood. With a final glance at the red sea, he sped once more through the doorway, though every step away from Captain Linova was twice as difficult as the last.

------

It was odd, walking through such an empty street, even at this late hour; though the curfew was in effect, and there were twice as many troops patrolling the streets, there was usually – at the very least – three or four others blending with the shadows in the alleyways, sneaking down and across what the Krals of Avenghelst had recently begun calling the Hidden Boulevard. Someone, though no one was sure exactly who, had spent several of his nights traversing the town's rooftops and watching the patrol routes of all of the Skenian guards in the city, and mapped out a comprehensive guide to which streets were safe and when. Of course, there were rumored authors of the Hidden Boulevard Map, as there were rumors for everything; some insisted that Prince Tierney Dourmn himself had written it, though he was rarely seen outside of his castle. Others insisted with utmost certainty that Grid Teva, the town bad boy and so-called civilian prince drew up the document, but he had no comment on the matter.

Holding his lamp to his copy of the map, Jake traced his steps and prepared to round a corner, knowing that the road would be clear for the next five minutes. As he did so, he dimmed his lamp by instinct, an involuntary action that may have saved his life. Still nestled in the umbra of the bakery's silhouette, he found himself nearly face-to-face with two Skenian guards. Thankfully, they were too busy focusing on a disturbance on the other side of the street to have seen him. His breaths caught in his throat and he backpedaled into the alleyway, pressing his back to the bakery wall and covering his white work shirt with his black cloak. The soldiers passed by, occasionally skipping a step as they set their sights upon a crowd of people forming at the edge of the stone atoll around the lagoon.

_Wait…what's going on?_ Jake thought to himself. He glanced both ways down the street and, sure that there were no other guards in the area, crossed it himself, following the electric torches that the soldiers, clad in green and black, shone upon the crowd. At the edge of the town proper, Jake stood; he could see that gigantic floodlights were shining out over Desiderata, sourced in the openings atop the city's overrun defense towers. Everyone, Skenian patrol included, jumped backward at the sound of a cannon firing. A bright flash bent around the cylindrical spire, and Jake could hear the stunned voice of one of the guards reciting an obviously rehearsed speech.

"Citizens of Avenghelst, you've been found to be in violation of Skenian code. Put your hands on your head and place your knees on the ground. Do not make sudden movements, and do not resist. I am carrying a firearm, and I assure you that a bullet moves faster than you ever will."

But no one was listening. Their eyes were on the sea. The guard repeated his speech, even the slightly humorous part toward the end, which lessened its effect immensely. When the group ignored him again, the other guard – the one who'd said nothing at this point – produced a truncheon and started an uphill walk toward the crowd. When he got to them, he grabbed the closest one by the nape – a little girl who couldn't have been more than five years old – and began beating her savagely, clubbing her across the face and upper body, as she screamed for her mother.

Her mother turned to the guard, and, in an act that shocked the entire crowd, pulled a small dagger from the side of her boot and drove the dull blade deep into the stomach of the guard, who attempted to fight back, but she twisted the blade and planted her foot against the spewing wound, kicking him with all of her might. He tumbled limply down the hill; the other guard pulled his pistol from his belt and aimed it at the knife-wielding woman.

The stampede of angry Krals from atop the hill crushed the other guard beneath their feet, his bones cracking and splintering as they fought him for control of the gun. The crowd won. Holding the silver pistol high above their heads, they looted the electric torches as well and waved the lights around in the air, attracting the attention of the Skenians in the defense towers, who saw the commotion and mounted their crank-powered alarms in the tower windows. The whining sound rallied the town's Skenian occupants to action; soldiers poured from the houses in which they'd been quartered and began a determined march toward the coast, where they hoped to meet the rebellious crowd. Jake was encouraged by the passersby to join in; some bizarre, bloodthirsty mindset had come over the previously downtrodden people. Jake knew that joining them could not be a good idea. He got the feeling that something wicked was going to happen in the town. He had to get to Anna.

She stood in the window of her shop, her red hair rustled and her pretty eyes full of worry. The alarms were something she'd never heard before, and the way that the green-uniformed men and women poured out of buildings, responding to the shrill call, filled her with a pungent sense of uneasiness. She'd foolishly told her lover to leave her in the shop, for she had cleaning to do, and would be able to get home later on thanks to the Hidden Boulevard; if she feared discovery, she could stay in the room above the shop and meet him in the morning for breakfast. But now, she scratched at the glass absently, wondering if he'd gotten home quickly, or if he was caught up in whatever was going on outside. Every time a suited soldier passed by the window, she shrunk back, avoiding the lights from the street; once or twice, she heard someone trying to open the door, but it was locked, and the soldiers were busy responding to the alarm, so none stayed for too long trying to gain access to the shop. She suspected that it was for the healing salve that she sold; it was a legendary concoction to the locals, and she sold out on a regular basis. If the alarm was a call to fight, then her vulnerary would be wanted.

She could not stay here, at least, not in plain sight. Were that door to come down, and it surely would given enough force, she would be at the mercy of the intruder. She decided to hide away in the cellar, where Jake would be sure to search for her. She hoped. She ran into the backroom, glancing around to make sure that anyone who entered the store would have no reason to suspect that she was still there, and pulled the heavy wooden trapdoor up. A rotting ladder descended into a dark pit that emitted a slight but noticeable moldy smell. As disgusting as that was, it beat being caught by the Skenians for whatever caused the alarms. Placing one of her red heels to the ladder, she cursed her shoe choice and descended into the slightly damp chamber, closing the door behind her and lighting a nearby candle. There was nothing left to do but wait.

The sounds of celebration were piercing and loud; if they weren't sealed indoors, Tierney would worry that their cheers and drunken shouts would alert the Skenians, by now several miles behind them. The still-flashing red warning lights lining the decks of the blockade were still visible to those looking out over the water, and if one listened carefully, they could hear the crying of the city's alarms. None of _Cold Heaven_'s crew, however, was paying any attention to that little town in their hindsight. Tierney stood from his throne, if he could call it that, and took a few steps forward, his footfalls careful but jittery; they'd hit a bout of turbulence passing over the blockade, and he worried that he'd be caught off guard and thrown to the ground, embarrassed. But he was slowly warming up to flight in general. It reminded him of the time he went cliff diving with Grid and some of his friends; at the beginning, he was reluctant, but after Grid pushed him the first time (thank Risse Silvain weren't there for that, or Grid would've been thrown in jail indefinitely for assaulting the prince), he became a lover of the sport. But that was when he was 14; he'd developed a healthy sense of self-preservation since then, and throwing oneself into the safety of the waters near land was much different than plummeting for hundreds of feet in a device made of dangerous machinery to a watery grave. Even if one survived such a crash, they'd surely drown before long. Descending the steps, he approached the helmsman, who ignored the festivities in favor of the brass wheel. Tierney put a gloved hand on his shoulder and he turned his head, smiling at the prince.

"You look a little better now that the dangerous part's over, Captain. Or Prince. Or whatever the fuck you are now," said Grid, now completely comfortable at the helm of the flying machine. It sailed so much smoother than anything he'd ever piloted before. He was just sad that he'd only be able to get one round trip out of it; surely it would fall into disuse after Nevehan flew in to intervene with the Skenian occupation, and there was no way in hell Prince Tierney would let the son of a mercantile empire take it off his hands.

"Either is fine, I suppose. But after this ordeal is over, I expect you to drop the captain thing. It'll be prince from then on."

"Is that what you expect of me, Cap'n?"

"Actually, I expect you to call me captain until you think it gets old, which is likely to be sometime in our twilight years. What I would _like_, Grid, is for you to drop it as soon as possible. But alas, when it comes to you, I never get what I want."

"Oh, come on, Cap'n, you always make me sound like such a punk."

"Grid…I don't know how you could've possibly missed this, but…you _are_ a punk."

"Love you too, Cap'n."

"It's already gotten old."

"Not even close."

The prince sighed and patted the sailor on the back, turning back and approaching the door to his right. He left the bridge under Grid's command, knowing that his peer could control the nonessential personnel who were partying, and headed down to the main deck where he was sure he would find someone out for a breath of fresh air. Instead, he found a whole slew of crew members, Silvain included, bowing in reverence, their arms extended to the northwest. The time was one o'clock in the morning. Tierney looked to the skies and saw Risse's form gliding effortlessly across the cosmos, his seven arms extended as if to embrace the rebel prince.

Don't forget the review, love!

------

TEASER FOR NEXT CHAPTER: We return to Lady Lyndis of Caelin, now a captive of Skene. She is presented to the Skenian Council itself: Pope Aeth Vathiel II, the publicly loved but corrupt religious leader; Astyanax Abendroth, the legendary military leader and father of Skene's Lady of War; and a president whose face should be recognizable to fans of the FE series…

Author's Note: Well, that took all of…lemme think…far too long, that's how long it took. But, it is finished. I should warn you: as usual, I have not proofread. So if you see any glaring errors, then blame it on the fact that it's 7am and I've not slept. The next chapter should be a bit quicker than this one. I hope. I really have some exciting ideas for later on in this story.

*Nobylity – "Nobyl" is a derogatory term for humans who have been tainted by continued exposure to natural ley lines. Mutations are unique to every individual, but loss of intelligence and increased physical and (especially) magical strength are always observed. There have been no known cases of intellectual retention after transformation. The politically correct term for nobyl humans is "Affected." Nobyl animals require no politically correct term, so they are simply called "nobyls."


	7. Popular Sovereignty

Disclaimer: I do not own Fire Emblem. Wouldn't that be wonderful, though, if I did?

Author's Note: This is another chapter that has taken freaking forever to write. This chapter will fulfill the "A Hero" segment of the 100 Themes Challenge. Remember how I said I'm gonna stop trying to follow that? I'm trying. Old habits die hard.

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Chapter 7 – Popular Sovereignty

For all their brutality and the utilitarian, overindustrialized look of their ships, Lyndis was surprised to find her stay on the _Astyanax_ unexpectedly hospitable. She'd been given a room half the size of her royal quarters in Caelin, though that was still a substantial size; she was shocked that they hadn't tried to cram her into a three foot by three foot steel cage, like all the rumors of Skene's treatment of prisoners suggested. In fact, everything about her imprisonment was stunningly quaint. She suspected that her noble status was the cause of the comfortable lodgings, but regardless of how many layers of goose down comforters and perfume-scented tissues were draped across her captivity, it remained just that: captivity. She was an animal to Skene, a Lorca mutt whose sole purpose was her ability to wield Mani Katti. They'd not told her with what intent they'd taken her into custody, but with the way they poked and prodded at the sacred metals of her sword, it was blatantly obvious that they were not interested in her as the Lady of Caelin or as one of the most capable female fighters from the small nation. She could be a tax collector's illegitimate daughter and they would still treat her this way. They were pampering her so that she would reveal the blade's secrets.

But this presented a conundrum, albeit a less difficult one, separate from the mysteries of the Mani Katti. How was she to explain the blade's workings if there were no workings to explain? Lyndis didn't know why she was chosen by the sword as its rightful owner. She was not one to question the spirits that guided her; when she'd been presented with the Mani Katti for the first time, she bowed her head in reverence to the sword's divine protectors and accepted her duties without reservation. She was mortal; the blade, heavenly. She knew that she could never begin to fathom the enigmatic weapon, so she didn't try. Yet now, Skene was trying to do exactly what she knew was impossible. They were trying to figure out what made it tick, and they needed Lyndis to tell them. What would they do to her when they found out she didn't know?

They wouldn't. She wouldn't say anything. If she remained silent, then they would have no choice but to keep her around. She was safe from harm, for if she were harmed, then no one would ever know how Mani Katti worked. They wouldn't like it, of course, but Lyndis wasn't exactly in a mood conducive to stimulating Skenian joy. In fact, thinking of the faces of all of those lost in the invasion – the young diplomats of Delsey, the twin Caraholmian princes, Lyndis's future mother-in-law Queen Bernadette of Taltia, and her son, Lyndis's betrothed, her beloved Cyprian. Lyndis was unaware of her grandfather's fate, a mystery that tore at her mind like a wildcat, bringing the hot burning of salty tears to her eyes every time she suspected that her elderly father figure might not have survived. It was something she preferred not to think of at all, instead turning her mind to the thousands of other questions that cropped up in her mind as a result of the bloodbath. For instance, how fared the Confederacy? Delsey was probably ripping itself to shreds as Lyndis pondered; with no authority figures, and at such a vital early stage in its development, the country would be in a state of utmost panic by now. Caelin, too, had lost its ruling body; the lady could only hope Lord Hausen was still present to guide the confused and shaken populace. Taltia's matriarch was dead, as was its heir. Caraholm had only sent its princes, and though it pained Lyndis to lessen the significance of their lives in her mind, operations would continue there under higher management. Vanivio was a question mark in itself; had the Count survived? And what of his trophy, the dancer Hazel?

She was apprehensive knowing that the remaining monarchs would likely convene to determine the future of the leaderless nations. If and when she returned to whatever was left of Caelin, there was a chance that it would be under Caraholm's or Vanivio's rule, neither of which Lyndis was particularly enthusiastic to relinquish control of her people to. If Count Alaric survived, he'd no doubt explode with rage toward the Esteemed Oligarchy and probably try to declare, futilely, a state of war between the Confederacy and its neighbor. And King Warrens…well, Lyndis just didn't like him. He was a sinful man who'd made lewd advances toward the lady when they first met, years ago. It was a secret she kept to herself, seeing no advantage to exposing the lecherous ruler's antics. Besides, she was a strong woman and could handle him on her own. Of course, her strength was the reasoning with which he pursued her in the first place…

Dragging her finger across the satin sheets on her bed, she tested the firmness of her mattress. It was near perfect for her, the springs within contracting just enough to give it an obvious foundation without feeling too much like a stone slab. It was not unlike her royal bed at Castle Caelin, though hers was a degree softer. She'd have preferred a denser sleeping place, but because it was at home, she found herself longing to be resting there instead of aboard the _Astyanax_. To be beneath the seafoam canopy, nude and free, wrapped snugly beneath the cool sheets, held within the strong arms of her beloved –

_Oh, Cyprian…_

She wiped a solitary tear from her eye and felt the lingering resolve to avenge her betrothed, the image of his death replaying over and over in her tormented mind. The blonde admiral's merciless hold upon him, the blood-soaked blade sawing through his neck and dropping his comely, wide-eyed face upon the carpeted floor, her superhuman agility and how she matched the lady in swordplay skill, despite the latter's use of superior Lorca technique – all of it boiled within her. She refused to lose her composure and attack in a fit of rage again. Her anger made her powerful, but vulnerable. A level head and calm nerves were key. She would kill Guinevere. Even if it cost her own life, Cyprian – and every Caelinite who lost their life that infamous day – would be avenged.

"Lady Lyndis, rise," she heard from the doorway. The noise startled her; she leapt from the bed and turned to face the door, where she saw a youthful lad in green garb. It was typical sailor fare. He was a nobody on this ship, but on his words carried the unmistakable dripping of Skenian arrogance. He felt superior to her. Oh, what she would have given to have been able to prove his small mind wrong.

"You walk so readily into the cage of an angry lioness and ask her to stand?" the lady snapped, though she, having jumped from the bed at the sound of his voice, had already accomplished his wish; he stared, befuddled, his rehearsed confrontation with her having gone differently than he'd expected.

"Forgive me, milady," he quickly corrected himself, finding that he would rather be in her favor than not. "It is standard protocol for our…guests…to stand as a sign of respect when a superior officer is present."

Lyndis all but laughed at the fool. "For a superior officer, you don't carry like one. For example, the string of toilet tissue dragging behind your boot is less than becoming. Would you agree?"

The sailor looked down at his boot, muttering an expletive before removing it with his gloved hand. He crumbled it up and stuffed it into his pocket sheepishly, feeling that he'd rather soil the inside of his pocket than the floor of a noble, even if her confederacy was not officially recognized as a sovereign nation by the motherland.

"Ma'am, I wasn't referring to myself. I'm but a sailor," he said, returning to his military stance.

"Then who were you referring to?"

"That'll be quite enough of your introductory speech, Haarhaus. I can take it from here. Return to your duties," came a feminine voice from the doorway. Lyndis stood firm as the admiral entered, her fighting instinct crawling into her limbs and extremities, like creeping ivy. Her eyes immediately fell on the sword of the sailor Haarhaus, a minute twitch that apparently caught the attention of Guinevere.

"I'd advise against it, milady," the admiral cooed, her eyes trained on the green-haired woman, watching for the contractions of her muscles should she decide to try to fight again. "It would reflect badly on your reputation to slay a helpless whelp like this one."

"The reputation that is already no doubt vehemently slandered by your country's pampered populace. I know what they must think of me."

"Actually, Lady Lyndis, you might be surprised to discover that our middle and lower classes see you as a sort of inspiration. A portrait of freedom."

"I am surprised."

"I'm only joking, Majesty. I do not dabble in the conversation of commoners. I have bigger fish to fry, as they say."

"That, however, does not surprise me. What business do you have here? And moreover, why do you continue to call me by such esteemed names when you've made it abundantly obvious that you hold me in ill regard?"

"Milady, it is not you I hold in ill regard. Were we not thrust onto opposite sides of this war, I should surely find no quarrel with you. Indeed, I would not be against breaking bread or sharing tea with a woman of your status. Risse knows I could endure some feminine accompaniment from time to time. You know of Risse, yes?" the admiral asked amicably. Her sudden friendliness was disconcerting to Lyndis, who felt a strange feeling building in the pit of her stomach. It was the twisted knots of suspicion entangling themselves with the webbed roots of hope. The two feelings dueled within her, and she rooted incessantly for the skepticism to win out; there was no way she would allow herself to consider any sort of fraternization with the woman who killed her fiancée in cold blood.

"…yes, I have heard of Risse. There was a priest installed in the castle –"

"Father Leyck. I know him well; he baptized me when I was much younger."

" – but I do not adhere to his virtues. My idol is Hanon. She was a –"

"She was the founder of nomadic Sacae, was she not? Yes, several tribes saw her as something of a divine figure." It was obvious from the look on Lyndis' face that the lady did not expect the admiral to know such a thing. It was common misconception that the Skenians were too self-absorbed to study other cultures, and actually one of few things that bothered Guinevere about the outside world (aside from the fact that it was not controlled by the Oligarchy). "I know something of Sacaean culture myself. But tell me," the admiral continued, sitting at the end of Lyndis' bed and looking expectantly at the prisoner, almost guiding her with the officer's eyes to a seat upon the mattress. For a second, she stopped, realizing that Lyndis' bed was more comfortable than hers. A mental note was made to have this corrected when they arrived at Lona. "How is it that you can worship a human? Hanon did not have any divine attributes; Risse brings miracles. Risse flies like a star above us, while Hanon lies rotten in the earth. For what do you rely on your god?"

"Hanon is not a god. We know and embrace this fact. Hanon demonstrates to us the potential of human life, for both beauty and strength. Legends are told of her beautiful form in battle, how she could take out entire armies with her bow, and only her wits as armor. They say she was buried at the site of her final battle; though she sided with Kutolah, all tribes threw down their weapons when she died and they mourned. Her death unified us as Sacae, and then we advanced. Our tribes formed cities; our cities formed an alliance. The Lysvere Confederacy."

"A moving story, I will admit. But the dead do not rise at the sight of Hanon."

"I would argue that the dead do not rise at the sight of Risse, either," Lyndis retorted, "for the dead have no eyes to see with."

"A fair point, Lyndis. But a theological discussion is not what brought me here. I've come to discuss proper etiquette when facing the Councilors. You're only recently being acquainted with what it means to be royalty, and as such, I feel that a quick course in mannerisms and speech is in order."

Lyndis stood offended. Clearly, the admiral saw her only for her tribal lineage; as typical Skenians did, Guinevere saw Lyndis as a mongrel, and even worse, a mutt. She was half-Skenian, something she regretted being unable to change. Her mother, Lord Hausen's daughter, was a full blood, run off to a small village to live with her love, where she bore her only child, the daughter Lyndis. Unfortunately, both of her parents had died, and Hausen had no other heirs than her. She returned to fulfill her duty as declared by her noble blood, though in recent times it seemed that carrying Skenian blood and being noble were mutually exclusive.

"Of course, because a mongrel like myself would have no conception of what behavior is required when faced with those of high status."

_Took the words right out of my mouth, mutt,_ the admiral thought. "Milady, that's no way to consider yourself. I assure you, the Council will look past your inexperience. They are genuinely interested in meeting you. If you happen to make a few mistakes, I'm sure they will grant you pardon. Now, it is very important that you maintain eye contact when speaking to my superiors. It is disrespectful to look away from them when they are addressing you. Keep your shoulders back and your posture upright, and contest nothing that they say. That last bit is my own personal advice to you. They do not take kindly to having others tell them what to do, especially foreigners."

"I know all of this already, Guinevere."

"A little reinforcement never hurts. And it's 'Admiral' to you."

"Fine."

Guinevere found Lyndis' devil-may-care sarcasm to be distasteful, but she continued to disregard it, hoping that graciousness might force the nomad child to be less of a hassle, thus making her easier to escort. In the few minutes that they'd been together from pickup to the present, Gwen had begun losing patience with the woman; she couldn't wait to get rid of her. Luckily, Lona was within sight.

"Lady Lyndis, I trust you've found your stay to your liking, but I'm afraid the accommodations must end here. We will be docking at Lona in minutes, so if you would allow me, I'd like to escort you to the Council Chamber myself."

Lyndis defiantly crossed her arms, but knew that she would be in Guinevere's company regardless of how she answered. She made the difficult decision to come quietly and preceded the admiral out of her quarters, every second wondering how long it would be until the sharp blade of Skenian cruelty reunited the captured princess with her lost love.

He knew he was late; he'd heard the midday bells and the horns signaling the arrival of the _Astyanax_, but he'd been able to largely ignore the harsh shrieks and gongs due to a combination of age-related hearing loss and the fact that his head, coated with a thinning mop of salt-and-pepper hair, was buried deep beneath a pudgy pillow. One of the many advantages to being in power was the ability to sleep whenever you damn well pleased, and this was the one ability among the many that Aeth Vathiel II took advantage of every day. He had no notion of where the sun might stand in the sky; he wasn't listening when his royal messengers came in to tell him when young Guinevere was to return. The Lady of War's mission had apparently been a massive success. Not only was the Lysvere Confederacy all but crippled, but Lord Hausen had been taken out of power in Caelin. The pope had nothing against Hausen as a man, but as a leader, he found the man's inability to force religious conformity among the savages disconcerting. Aeth was against any man who did not worship Risse. They were harder to control.

Clad in robes of green silk and white fur, he rose from his bed, bones popping as his weight shifted to his knees and legs. His cane was nearby, and he grabbed it on his way through the door. It was not necessary for him to walk with the cane, but he liked the way it resembled a scepter. It made him kingly. And if not for Abendroth and Bestechlich, he would be the king. Not that he cared for being the nation's monarch; he respected both of the other men for the job they did. Aeth had no tactical prowess when put in control of a nation's military, as he'd repeatedly proven in constant verbal skirmishes against Abendroth. Aeth, it seemed, could never answer a question right; should he move his twenty-man squadron to the top of the hill, or bring in the airship fleets, knowing full well that the enemy's anti-aircraft weaponry would likely destroy it before any real damage could be done? No matter what he answered, he was incorrect. And Aeth's interest in social politics was miniscule, for they did not apply to him. No, he much preferred being in control of the world's largest religion. It gave him control over life and death. It made him a god. His word was law, more so than the words of the other two councilors.

Emerging into the dimly lit hall, he was flanked by a wave of his personal assistants, and immediately bombarded with questions. Would you like breakfast, sire? Did you sleep well, Great Father? We've received prayer requests from dozens of people as the day has progressed, would you like me to organize them based on importance for your review? No, no, please, leave me be, children of Risse, I have an emergency meeting with the Council, step aside please, step aside –

Before he knew it, his regal form was passing through the massive golden doorway to the Council Chamber. He could tell from the looks on the faces of the other councilors that they were mildly annoyed by his tardiness. Abendroth's face was hard, as usual; his eyes, like stone, locked with Vathiel's, and the two shared a mutual nod of respect for one another. Vathiel pivoted his head slightly, his vision drifting from Abendroth's seat on the trio of thrones to the one at the center. No matter how Vathiel tried, he could not out-stare the president, whose hazel orbs bored through the pope's skull and deep into his brain, reading his thoughts, it seemed. Any normal person would crumble at the sight of that man; Aeth was glad he didn't give a rat's ass.

"Morning!" he sang to his comrades, taking his seat at President Bestechlich's right. Abendroth was silent; Bestechlich, not so much.

"Your Divinity," the president said flatly, obviously uninterested in the man's rank and status. "It is devastating to your reputation, if you can call it that, to show such blatant disregard for your duties. You never know who might be watching, Vathiel. I would advise you to refrain from any future tardiness, especially when you're just blowing us off for another hour of sleep. What would your god think of this lethargy?"

"Well, Mr. President," Aeth began snidely, "Risse thinks of me what I want him to think of me. As far as you're concerned, I'm Risse incarnate, and if I want to sleep, then I'm sure Risse will forgive me. I'm a very important man, you see. I need my sleep." The slight bump in Bestechlich's nose was prominent from Aeth's standpoint, viewing the president's profile. Bestechlich didn't bother to look at the pope when he spoke. The man's voice was powerful enough to have the intended effect without the extraneous effort expended to view his elder.

Aeth, as was evident from his passive-aggressive banter with the blond, was not Bestechlich's biggest fan. He rather detested him. Bestechlich won his position through a combination of shady dealings – VERY shady dealings – and riding his father's fame. He was too charismatic for his own good, when the need arose. The people loved him as a child, the young boy with the ashen yellow hair living in the Senate, tugging on his father's slacks for attention, seeking validation from his predecessor, yet somehow never achieving it, not even with the old president's untimely death…but behind closed doors, Bestechlich was the single most unfriendly, coldhearted and ruthless person the pope had ever seen. Aeth saw it as a shame that the president did not believe in Risse. He'd be an excellent ally.

"I suppose you should know that we planned to carry out this meeting without you," Bestechlich informed the pope, who scoffed, but said nothing. He was too busy entertaining himself with childish thoughts regarding the president's goatee, or his spiked hair that made him resemble a dislikeable adolescent.

The doors at the other end of the room opened effortlessly, guided only by a slight push from the royal guard. A circle of seaman entered the room, their eyes to the floor, not wanting to presume superiority or equality to the Council by looking into their eyes without permission. In the center of the circle were two women. One was blonde, and immediately recognizable. Astyanax stood from his chair and began a slow clap, and was shortly joined by Aeth. Bestechlich remained still, his pointed chin held up by a set square jaw. The other woman, sporting clover locks, was unfamiliar.

"Bravo!" Astyanax called to his daughter Guinevere, whose surly expression at once changed to one of happy fulfillment. Her father always seemed to be able to give her that inner warmth that reminded her that she was indeed human. This change of mood was immediately noticed by the Lady of War's unwilling guest, Lyndis, who was able to gently remove the admiral's grip on the Caelinite's arm and stand on her own, asserting her significance as a noble with her proper, authoritative stance.

"Majesties, I present to you Lady Lyndis Hausen, princess of the Lysveri province of Caelin," the admiral recited, nudging Lyndis forward to a large stone circle in the center of the room. Standing there, she felt the scrutinizing eyes of the Council fall upon her, examining her in every way, dissecting her form, her fashion, the way she carried herself, determining whether or not a savage like her was worthy of noble status. And, as Guinevere had directed her, she kept her gaze affirmed upon the Council members. The first to speak was the pope.

"My, my," he said, "The ladies of Lysvere have always been known to be a beauteous sort, but milady Lyndis, you have certainly raised the bar in my mind."

"Silence, Aeth. Your conduct is bordering on offensive."

"Can it, Bestechlich."

"I'd like to present a motion to the Council, then, to remove Aeth from the chamber. All in favor," the president requested coldly, raising one hand, his arm forming a near perfect 90 degree angle, his muscular form obvious, even within the deep purple suit he wore. Astyanax subtly raised a hand as well. "That's simple majority, Your Divinity. Goodbye."

The pope was clearly pissed about being embarrassed in front of a perfect stranger, and especially one of status, but remembering that the Caelin was not recognized as a sovereign nation by Skene, he grabbed his cane and slowly made his way out of the room, his lecherous eye examining the lady from behind as he passed through the entryway.

"Milady," the president said, "I would like to offer my sincerest apologies on behalf of the Council for Pope Vathiel's contemptuous behavior."

And then he stopped, as though seeking a response from the lady. Unsure of what to do, she looked back at the seamen and Guinevere. They were unmoving.

"Um…I accept your gracious apologies, Mr. President. Surely the two of you act in a manner more befitting of your status."

It was disgusting. She couldn't believe she was stooping to the level of complimenting a Skenian official, but this man they called Bestechlich actually seemed agreeable, at worst. At the very least, his first impression had been favorable, though she knew better than to assume the best about these yellow-haired fiends. And yet, President Bestechlich was a popular man, and not for the normal reasons that people were usually popular in this part of the world. He was no killer, no warrior. He'd served in the military, where he was a force to be reckoned with, but he was generally known for having a big heart, not a marksman's eye. But then, why did his voice sound so cold? So flat and yet, so venomous?

"Lady Hausen, I ask permission to call you by your first name," said Bestechlich. His stance shifted; he crossed his legs and propped his face up on one of his hands, his eyebrows raised as he paused for her response. She kept her eyes on him, letting Abendroth to his passive role in the background.

"…permission granted, Mr. President."

"We of the Council request that you call us by our first names as well, Lyndis. We would like to discuss the current matter with you on level ground."

The woman couldn't help but wonder what other pleasant little surprises awaited her in this grand chamber. She would've liked to have answered him affirmatively, but she didn't know their names. Back home, they were only ever referred to as the Esteemed Oligarchy or by their titles; President, Grand Commander, and Pope. Leeriness reared like a wild horse in her mind, but too much had happened to her in past days. Any nugget of cordiality at this point was gladly accepted.

"Well, thank you, Mr. President. For this to work, I must ask your names."

The quiet man, Guinevere's father, introduced himself first.

"I am Astyanax, milady. A pleasure to meet you finally." His voice was weighty enough to mark him as an important person, though from the voice alone Lyndis would never assume royalty. He had very pronounced jowls and crow's feet peeking from the corners of his eyes, and a face that seemed to hardly ever move. She hadn't even seen him blink since entering the room. In some ways, though, Astyanax reminded her of her grandfather.

"The ship's namesake."

"Yes, that is me."

"A powerful name. And you, Mr. President?"

The blond stood from his chair and cracked his knuckles, his expression neutral, as usual. She knew he was a tall man before he rose, but now, he looked positively goliath, descending the small set of steps to the long green carpet that the lady was standing on. She felt tension flood her body and froze up, but when the man kneeled in front of her, reaching for her hand and kissing it, she felt a wave of calming relaxation. It wasn't typical behavior of a Skenian to show such amiability to a lesser ranked noble.

"I am Zephiel. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lyndis. We will try to make the following exchange as painless as possible for you. I know you've suffered a lot of harm lately. My deepest apologies for those lost in Caelin."

It then occurred to Lyndis that the orders to commit the Lysveri genocide had not come from the soldiers. They did not come from any particular general, nor did they come from Guinevere herself, though she did seem to take pleasure in making the ordeal into as much of a bloody spectacle as she could. They came directly from the higher ups. The highest ups. The Oligarchy itself.

She resisted the urge to jerk her hand away from the murderer. He stood and returned to his throne, assuming the same casual pose as before.

Her vision was clouded with hatred. Everything was beginning to take on a reddish tint to her, and her hearing began to echo all around, no doubt helped by the size and emptiness of the room. She could almost feel the phantom weight of Mani Katti at her waist, and her hand brushed through the space it would've occupied were it in her possession. She could sense where the weapons were in the room; Guinevere's sword, the swords of the officers, the dagger hidden in Bestechlich's boot that she'd seen when he kneeled, Astyanax's silver-colored flint at his hip. None were close enough. It didn't matter. None of them were Mani Katti, and without that blade, she was unsure she would survive if she were to attempt to fight them now. It didn't stop her from wanting to, though.

"Lyndis, it is to our understanding that you are – excuse me, were – in possession of a certain ancient artifact, known as the Mani Katti. Are we correct?" Bestechlich began.

"Yes, you are."

"Tell us about it."

"Very well," she said through clenched teeth. This was not going to be easy. Would she make something up? A fanciful story of swords and souls to explain why she was chosen to use it in battle? Did she feign innocence or ignorance? _I don't know, Mr. President, it just works for me, and I have no idea why, nor do I question it._ They wouldn't like that one bit. It reeked of bullshit. It wasn't. "What would you like to know about it?"

Astyanax spoke first this time. Zephiel seemed content with that.

"They say the spirit of Hanon possesses the blade. What is meant by that?"

"It is as it sounds. Our nation's matriarch died, and her spirit was sealed within the sword."

"But why?"

"Some say it was her willpower, others her heart. As for me, I cannot give you an answer that I fully believe in."

"Very well, Lyndis," interjected Zephiel, "They say you're the only one who can wield it."

The tone in his voice was unnerving. She nervously shifted and looked back to Guinevere, whose villainous hands were now stroking Mani Katti's ornate sheath. She returned her eyes to Zephiel, her stance now casual and uncaring.

"Yes, they do."

"Show me."

I'm back! Read and review!

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Author's Notes: I had to end it now. For some reason, this chapter was just blocking every attempt I made at writing it. I couldn't for the life of me get beyond it, but I figured this was a good little cliffhanger to throw in. The next chapter is also going to be fairly long, but hopefully more engaging for me to write. As for what happens…hmm, I suppose you'll have to wait for this one


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